Peace and Love
by Republic of Yolossia
Summary: A collection of oneshots based on Pogues songs. Stories complete so far: LadKug, HuttMol, LuxMold, NedRo, RoPort, AmeLiet
1. Who fortune could not save - LadKug

_Franz - Kugelmugel_

 _Lars - Ladonia_

 _..._

 _Well, this is the first in a series of one-shots involving APH ships based on various Pogues songs that are all pretty sad and melancholy because most Pogues songs are depressing as fuck. This one's LadKug and although it could be argued most of these stories take place in the same universe (with the exception of some of the stories with overlapping ships etc), the two that are definitely linked to this one are the AusHun and SuFin stories, so please look out for those. A lot of these stories are epistolary too, because that's something I want to explore more and I like using them for historical fics. Oh, and a lot of these are set in different historical time periods too._

 _This particular song is based on 'Thousands are Sailing' and parts of this song also inspired the SuFin and AusHun ones, though they get their own songs too. The fics will be called 'Dancing on the Line' and 'Set the Night on Fire' respectively, and are currently in the works._

* * *

"In manhattan's desert twilight

In the death of afternoon

We stepped hand in hand on broadway

Like the first man on the moon"

* * *

18th October, 1952

Franz, my dearest friend,

You said you do not have anyone to send letters to, there are too few people in your life and you miss to romance of receiving a handwritten letter. Well, now you have me! I mean, you already had me but now you have me and a letter to read whenever you please. Maybe I can even write to you about things my stupid mouth refuses to say aloud. Or, you know, about the important things. Or about you. Or all three? So much for romance of this. Writing letters is a lost art, and I have long lost the art of writing letters since I stopped believing in Santa.

As for things that cannot be said aloud...

For example, I wish I knew what to say about so many things. I wish you were less alone. Where are your parents? Do you not have brothers or sisters? I cannot even believe you came to this country alone. Were you scared? You travelled to England as a child. To live? Your parents let you live on your own like that? Like a grown up? You were so lucky!

I did not mean to make this a letter prying into your personal life. Tell me when you want to.

You are a fascinating man, though, like you are from another time. You seem like you would be more at home in a mansion, writing and painting and being an odd, eccentric fellow with no one to disturb you.

The truth is, I have no idea what to put in a letter. We see each other every week. I suppose I could complain about Peter, but I do that in person already. Is there anywhere you would like us to go? I feel there is still so much of this city we have yet to explore – and I have lived here since I was three!

All the best,

Your good friend Lars

* * *

19th October, 1952

Dear diary,

Trying to recall my earliest memories reminds me of drowning. Like I am surrounded by inky water and clawing my way towards the light that might be the surface, or a siren. It is like staring at a half-finished painting: some details are there, but it is mostly white. Or an abstract work of art whose meaning I have not quite yet grasped.

Trying to put dates and time spans to these memories would be like tearing the pages of this diary out and throwing them on the floor, only to spend days putting them back in order.

This is how I feel trying to remember my papa.

I have one memory of his face. His living face, that is. Warm. Stern, but kind. He was proud of me, I think. Maybe I had taken my first steps? Or fed myself? But he was overjoyed. Was it back in Sweden? Maybe that is my only memory of Sweden, but I have long forgotten everything in the image that was not papa.

In my other memories, he is a corpse.

I remember wondering why papa was sleeping on the table. Why was the blanket covering his face? I was never allowed to hide under the covers – Mr Tino said I might suffocate in the night. He always worried about things like that.

He was crying. I wondered if it was because papa was sleeping under the covers. And on the table.

Papa was a strange man, or so I have since been told.

They put him in a box and buried him in the ground. I tried to climb in after him, wake him up and get him out of there or he'd be scared when he woke up alone and trapped. Mr Tino cried and pulled me out. I thought he might get angry, shout at me and tell me to stop playing, but he never; he just cuddled me as I screamed to get papa out of there.

He didn't like the dark. What were they doing?

Peter threw flowers into the hole after him. I remember little else.

I have yet to think of the reason I write all this down. Why would I want to document such an event? Then again, these are the only memories of papa I have.

Mr Tino told me to call him Isi. He said he was our new papa, that our real papa had asked him to look after us as if we were his own children. It was something we accepted without much thought, and something I will always accept.

Lucky I have more memories of Isi. He truly was my second father and I only wish Franz could have met him too. They would get along, most likely, travelling all the way from Europe on their own.

I think I now accept I cannot remember a thing about Sweden.

* * *

28th October, 1952

My own dearest friend,

I feel there are many things I have never explained to you, things I felt I did not need to and things I did not want to speak of. Not right now. Maybe not ever, but chances are I just need time. I have told no one for thirteen years and will do at some point, but I want to know I can trust you with such information. Do not speak of Kindertransport again until I am ready to explain, or do your own research for the time being and think of what you truly wish to ask.

Regardless, I agree with your wish to be less alone. I have had no one, really. Not in a good while.

Prying aside, I did enjoy your letter. I have not had post in a long time – even my foster family in England have moved on – but now I not only have a beautiful letter but something of you I can hold and keep with me! A tiny piece of your soul. Thank you.

Yours faithfully,

Franz Edelstein

* * *

31st December, 1952

My diary,

I should invite Franz over.

We always go to his apartment and he cooks for me and fusses over me so much, like I am his husband or something. I love it but sometimes I feel bad that he does so much work. I mean, he has that job at the theatre and still makes time to care for me like we are married?

I will cook for him! I will make him something Swedish – he likes Swedish, so he was telling me. No, wait, I don't get paid for a few more days... cupboard leftovers it is, I'm afraid. Sorry, Franz.

I will make sure Peter is on his best behaviour too. Or, preferably, get that wannabe magician to do a disappearing act. Is there not someone he can go out drinking with? He certainly is going nowhere near the kitchen.

I wish I had somewhere more impressive to bring you, Franz. A one-room apartment… what to do? The tour would be rather a disappointment:

"So this is where I sleep, and I eat in that chair with the creaky leg, and that dark stain on the ceiling is from where my adoptive father blew his brains out. Peter found him and he has not been quite the same since."

No! We will have a good time! I just have to believe in my abilities as an entertainer.

* * *

1st January, 1953

Dear diary,

So, I burnt dinner.

Franz tried his best to spare my feelings and eat a lump of spam and chips that I blamed on Peter – yes of course he cooked and left just before you showed up, it is completely his fault that they burnt – but, soon enough, I could see your gourmet stomach was aching.

So we went out to a bar, not the same bar I'd convinced Peter to go it, no, one to more our… tastes. After getting something to eat, of course.

I hope Franz does not think I'm here for his money, though it was lovely sitting in a top-class restaurant, with rich, expensive food and wine. I would love Franz if he wasn't an actor. He could be homeless and I'd love him all the same. After all, he loves me though I sweep roads for a living.

We stayed at the bar until last year rolled into this, holding each other close and dancing like we were the last two people on earth. Honestly, the way things are headed, we could find wake up and find ourselves the last two people on earth, or that we've become nothing but dust and ash, so why not grab every opportunity to live our lives and go out with no regrets? I sang louder and danced harder and held Franz closer at the thought.

It was so refreshing to be able to hold him with no fear.

A strange way to go about life: both living for the moment and be damned with the consequences; and secrecy mixed with caution because as much as I want to say to hell with everything, there is still a chance of life ahead and I don't want that life to be spent in prison.

Or, more importantly, I couldn't bear to see Franz in prison.

Why am I talking about this? I'm here to talk about the best night of my life!

When Franz and I eventually stumbled into the street, it was still night. Morning couldn't have been far off, though, and things had an otherworldly magic to them. Or maybe I was too tired and plonked to see properly, but a drunk artist is still an artist, after all. Few cars were about, even as we walked along Broadway, holding each other up and laughing and at some point we danced. Stupid, lively dancing. No music, but no matter.

Lucky for us, Franz's hair is so long, and he's so small compared to me. That mess of blond was tied into a ponytail, swishing everywhere and whacking me in the face as he spun. His coat ballooned like a pleated skirt, and he took his hand in mine, leading me in a waltz.

Neon lights overhead were our spotlights, the distant rumbling of cars our cheering audience. He even climbed a lamppost as he sang singing in the rain.

He kissed me before we parted at the end of the night. Twice. A teasing peck before going in for something deeper. He caressed my face before disappearing with a wink, wishing myself and the city a good night.

When I got to my room, I may have cried.

* * *

24th May, 1953

Meine Liebe,

I shall give you this letter personally and you in turn will promise to keep it safe and hidden. Written word removes the risk of unwanted ears hearing what I have to say, but creates cold, hard proof that I love you. There, a man condemned. I love you, Lars Birghir Oxenstjärna. What of it, world?

I would ask you to destroy this letter after reading, but I suspect you would like to keep it. After all, I worked hard on making it aesthetically pleasing, a good canvas for my poor heart and soul. Cherish this, but hide it.

Keep it next to your heart, next to me.

You've changed my life, you know? You've filled it to the top and made it better than I could ever hope for. The colour you brought into this world saved my artist lungs and soul, and it is starting to push back the tide of grey. It is no longer everywhere I look. I can love the twinkles of light all around me, like I'm walking in a fairy wonderland. I now notice the headlamps of cars that dance across puddles in the road. There is magic in this city and in you, please remember that.

I believe we will last forever, that the love of an artist can never be killed, not truly. We may not see it now, but our relationship will leave its mark on the world.

Until we meet again tomorrow and I can tell you all this in person,

Your dear Franz xx

* * *

25th May, 1953

Diary,

Tonight we had the most magical time together. I met him after work, as he practised his lines to an empty theatre, and to me, ever so subtly, he said. I was able to vaguely follow the plot to Guys and Dolls and.. I think his character was Nathan Detroit. Okay, I had no interest in the musical itself but I loved watching Franz perform. Everything he said was so smooth, the tone of his voice and every expression just right, the way he interacted with other characters so smooth, everything a perfect rhythm.

It stung, seeing him sing love songs to someone else, seeing him hold her and kiss her and marry her. I know he was thinking of me, but the fact that we will never be able to marry, never be able to declare our love to the public, it hurts.

I mean, we could, theoretically, do it, we would just end up in prison. With other men. Who thought this through?

I invited him home and we drew each other, drinking heavily and laughing. Our drawings, as the night progressed, became… well… let's call them abstract. And awful.

When Franz becomes drunk, he sings. Like his parents, apparently, the first piece of information he has shared about them. He sang all the songs he'd worked so hard to learn, possibly the entire Guys and Dolls soundtrack but I don't know the songs themselves.

I know what Franz did to me when he kissed me, though.

* * *

26th May, 1953

My diary, my confidant,

Franz is mine to hold and cherish, day by day and time after time. He makes me want to be a poet. I hate poetry, but I love Franz so much I want to write every detail, preserve him for all time.

He stayed the night, and I watch him sleep as I write in the early hours of the morning. I love watching him sleep, it's the only other place - besides the stage and my arms - where he looks genuinely happy. I stroke his hair with one hand, diary on my knees and trying to keep as quiet as possible. I want food, but I don't want Franz to wake up alone.

I love him so much.

* * *

I told him about my parents.

I never told anyone, and since Isi died I've only had Peter to talk to about it. Sometimes we stay up late with beer and share our favourite memories of Isi, or wonder just what papa was like. Peter has more memories of him, and tells me he was truly kind. A selfless man. Though he had been sworn to secrecy on the subject, Peter tells me they loved each other very much.

I told Franz everything: their relationship, what papa did to make us leave Sweden, how they died. I trust Franz, and wanted him to know about this, this part of my life that's so important but so, so secret, to not have any more walls where he is concerned.

I cried.

I hadn't thought about them in a while - I try not to. I just want to move on and live my life but the ghosts are still with me and I miss them. Maybe it's my own future staring at me: I will go the same way as dad and Franz will be my Tino. I know times are different and I'm not working all the hours on the railroad like they were, with that level of danger, but some things haven't changed.

Whatever happens, I loved and that is what mattered.

It's what Isi always told me: he never regretted love, taking that chance when the whole world was against them. I know what he means now.

Franz was there for me, though, he held me as I sobbed onto his shoulder. Thinking about how he cares for me so much made me cry harder, and the smell of his hair is home to me.

He doesn't want to tell me about his parents yet, and I accept that.

* * *

1st August, 1953

Dear diary,

Franz is the best thing to ever happen to me.

Yes, everything about our relationship must remain a secret, but I'm still so happy to have this gentle, loving man in my life, to caress and hold and swear to protect. We have pockets of moments, between work and trying to sell my paintings. We have nights and whispers and kisses and he tells me he doesn't mind quiet, secret. He hates being exposed, out in the open with everyone knowing everything, like they could use it against him. He is a whirlwind too, but he has his limits.

Franz does look after me, maybe a little too much – I am supposed to be a grown man – but I have promised that nothing bad will happen to him either, not if I can help it. Something tells me he just needs a break in life.

I love his hair so much. It's a wave of ice but the softest things. And his eyes! They look like little jewels and he has a mole on his cheek that is so cute. Anywhere I put my hands is soft, smooth, perfect. Every smile he gives is so genuine I cannot believe I can make a human look at me in such a way! He is an expressive man, must be to work on stage, but every emotion he rides, even the ones he would rather avoid.

Sometimes, at night when he is awake and I'm almost asleep, he looks like he will cry.

I still don't know much of his past. I don't know about the kindertransport or the Shoah or any of those words he hesitates in telling me, hesitates more before saying now isn't the time. I understand, I think.

Something evil happened.

I asked Peter, but he knows nothing. Typical. He told me to go to the library, and I suppose, if I have no other option, then I could see what a few hours reading can tell me.

I've heard to talk about the Shoah a lot, now that I think of it, not with me, but with older people, other immigrants with haunted looks and old scars. Franz doesn't share the look, but rather one of loss, fear. It ages him before me, and I want to know what was taken from him. If I cannot get it back, I could avenge Franz, right?

I need to know. I have to know what hurt him! I have to be able to protect him properly so he doesn't become like those other people. Is that a possibility?

That's it! I should ask them instead! Then I will know what to say to Franz, and how to talk to him without causing him to, well, clam up. Maybe I can help?

* * *

2nd August, 1953

I understand now. Oh God, I understand now.


	2. Go on Yankee, break my heart - HuttMol

_Michael – Molossia_

 _Orad/Oscar – Hutt River_

 _Apari – Australia_

 _Manya - Wy_

 _…_

 _Whoop, second in my sad Hetalia fics based on Pogues songs series! This one is based on Sayonara._

 _Given that I've always written him in the third person, I've never truly unlocked the full extent of Hutt's narrative voice and let me just say: it is the most needlessly flowery, pretentious voice ever. Like damn, calm down and stop trying to be a poet._

 _Again, very sad so sorry._

* * *

"OK, it's time for Sayonara

Go on yankee break my heart"

* * *

Dearest Michael,

You were different from the other Americans.

What I mean is, you looked different anyway. I expected the whole bloody lot of you to be blond and tanned and tall and built like Greek statues, uniforms fitting perfectly and just adding to how stupidly handsome you all were.

Like your brother, I suppose. He was all bright smiles and flashing blue eyes but something about you intrigued me.

I mean, you had the tan at least. But it was not the sun-kissed gold of your brother, rather baked red, a farmer's tan, a mark of hard work and honesty. You were a man of the earth with a love for the land and I just knew it the moment I saw you.

Your hair was the furthest thing from blond, but, now that I recall, it was styled like a typical flashy American soldier, but you weren't swaggering about the place, plying girls with chocolate and stockings and cigarettes.

I could see the appeal though. Even though you were slouched against a wall, watching your brother laugh and chatter with anyone who would give him a second of attention, you still fascinated me. Yes, let us use the term "fascinated" for the moment.

I could see what the locals meant about your uniforms.

I remember the sunglasses too; oh how could I not? You were the first American I saw with a pair that did not look, hmm, how should I describe it? Obnoxious? Then again, we all thought you lot were obnoxious.

It went well with your scarf. The red one. The red silk scarf tucked into your jacket. It screamed trouble to me. Well, not my trouble but your own, like you were off to jump in front of a bull. People have told me the colour red means a lot of things besides earth: love, passion, fertility, danger. Mostly danger. I worried for you, though I did not even know your name.

You would soon be off to war, after all.

You did not exactly look in the mood to talk to anyone, so I did not approach. I never approached people though.

But still, you saw me.

I never asked what you thought when you first looked at me, whether you were instantly captivated or angered that someone had disturbed your reverie or curious if I would say something. I should have asked. I will ask the moment you get home.

There are a lot of things I wish to ask you when you get home. Our time together was so short… so here's to figuring something out when the war is over.

All the hugs and kisses,

Orad

* * *

Darling Michael,

I do not know why I write to you like I would write in a diary, but I suppose this is the closest I will come to actually talking to you until the war is over. Maybe then you can read these and laugh at my silly worries that you may not return. Maybe then I can hear your replies to my questions, and tell me all you are currently seeing in Asia.

Where are you now? Singapore? Burma? I am in the dark about most that is going on. But we are winning, right? I think that is true, that the Yanks and Aussies are pushing back against Japan? They won't let me in any of the shops to buy a newspaper, and people are secretive about this sort of thing, lest a German is somewhere listening.

No Germans here, just me. Wanting to know how you are.

I hope you are keeping safe.

Hopes and wishes for the future,

Orad

* * *

Michael, my love,

I remember the first time you talked to me.

It was at the beach, evening time and I remember the sun painting the sky the colours of life, of nature. I remember letting the sand fall through my fingers as I watched you talk with the other Yankee soldiers and, to this day, I wish I could convince you I was there by accident. The beach is my special place, where I go to feel free and safe. Sometimes when the world is too much to bear, I go for a swim and let the cool water cleanse my face and body.

In all honesty, I was trying to make myself invisible in your presence, sitting quietly and not making a sound, but you still saw me, again. I was probably creeping you out at that point.

When the other soldiers went to the bar, you stayed behind and I wanted to flee. You were coming my way! There was, quite suddenly, no time to run.

But you just said hello, gave an awkward wave, and stood there.

The wind seemed to be attacking your coat more successfully than your hair and the sun dying at the other side of the city made you look like a fire. You smiled a goofy smile and the dimples in your cheeks made me smile back. I introduced myself as Oscar, and you told me your name was Michael.

You were alright, for a Yank.

We talked until we could no longer see, about our lives and the war we both knew little about. You told me about the USA, and I talked about my home on the edge of the city, a brother and sister, my birthplace out west that I had not seen in years. I told you my brother was off fighting and I had to stay here to look after my sister because something horrible would happen if I wasn't around to protect her.

You told me it was your brother Alfred who was enlisted, and you volunteered to be with him, and do your bit. I remember that, Michael, how desperate you were to help, to save everyone. A man of morals, truly, and I still admire you for that. You mentioned another brother, one you only knew was alive because he was in a POW camp somewhere in Germany. I hope he will be returned to you one day.

The sun kept dipping and dipping, but you did not care. All that mattered was talking to me like we were a pair of regular boys, discussing our hopes for the future and worries. You saw me as an equal and I appreciate that. No one else here did, not the Aussies or Americans or anyone except my siblings.

Of course, there was nothing regular about your fear of death, of the real war. Everything was still a dream-like trance for you. A crappy holiday but not yet the hell your veteran father warned you about. That would soon come.

You disappeared for a while at some point, leaving me to my exhilarated thoughts and returning with a bottle of scotch.

We walked as far as we could as we drank, singing and paddling in the sea. For the life of me, I cannot remember what we sang, if we tried to teach each other the words, if we danced. No, there was dancing, I'm sure of it. When I fell in and got my hair wet, you dried it with your scarf.

I remember that well. It settled around my shoulders; you didn't seem in any hurry to take it back. That scarf smelt of your cologne and I pressed it to my nose; I apologised for getting my salt and sand stink on it.

You… did not mind at all. Quite the opposite as you wrapped that thing around the two of us and kissed me. We were completely alone, but you still pulled away too soon. Your face… yes I understood the fear, but you did not need to fear me.

To prove it, I kissed you back.

I… am not the best kisser. I want to be the best at everything but, alas, I was terrible. So were you, I have to admit. It was something we could both laugh at, in between little pecks to noses and cheeks.

Then I wrapped your scarf back around your neck and told you to get going, that you'd be missed and we couldn't have that now.

But, of course, if you ever needed to find me, you'll find me on this beach.

I'm still here today; the moment you come home, you'll know where to look.

Kisses to your nose,

Orad xx

* * *

My beloved Michael,

As strange a place as it was to meet in secret, the beach became our little, safe world. That is, when we met outside the city, behind this rock outcropping where we could kiss in private, and maybe more.

Everyone said you Americans were overpaid, oversexed and over here. I can confirm at least two of those are true.

No, wait, you're no longer over here. You're over there. In Burma, that is what a soldier who knew you told me. His legs were missing and so were his eyes. I begged that would not be you.

Since you left, the worry has not left my body, but it was dull, a far away but painful truth I did not want to admit to myself. And now?

There was a chance you were not coming back at all. And what state would you be in when you came back? Not that I would care about you any less, no matter how gnarled and scarred you became, not even if half your body was missing.

I just don't wish such a fate on you.

And Apari too! Is it too much to hope you are both returned to me safe? And your brothers too. I just want us all to be fine, and together when the war is over. I want both my brother and sister by my side again, and you in my arms.

I could take on everyone responsible for this war right here right now!

I did want to sign up, and I told you as such. Apari told me not to. I needed to stay with Manya and I was a kiddo who couldn't go throwing my life away for no reason.

But Apari can, apparently.

I hope he comes back safe.

If I didn't worry about my sister so much, I would volunteer anyway, maybe fight with you and know just what was going on and if you were still alive. There isn't even a way of knowing if you have been injured or captured because who is going to tell me? We made sure no one knew of our relationship for a reason, and I can hardly walk into the barracks and ask.

I have convinced myself you are safe, and that is enough for now.

Lots of wishes,

Orad xx

* * *

My life and light,

It was strange, but I had never felt as safe as when we were swimming together, in our own private lagoon. I pulled you underwater and kissed you, knowing we would be disturbed by no one in our liquid crystal.

You looked ghostly as the moon filtered through the water, like the very sand you skidded across as you let the tides – and my hands – guide you.

When we came up for air, you laughed and I couldn't help joining in, dear. You remember, right? Your laugh is the best sound in the world, you know that, right?

Hugs and kisses and walks on the beach,

Orad xxxx

* * *

Beloved, darling Michael,

I hope our last night together is as deeply carved into your memory is it is into mine.

Oh, how could it not be? The moon was full and illuminating the sea and sand in a silvery shimmer. Everything was warm and calm as we lay together on the beach.

You laughed as we danced, jacket abandoned and your shirt soon following. You pulled off my shirt between kisses and - gently - pushed me down onto the sand.

You held my face in your hands as you cradled my soul in yours, our bodies intertwined and as loss was already building up in my heart; I did something I'd been meaning to for a while.

I told you my real name.

I wanted you to call me Orad.

And that was what you called me for the rest of the night. For once, I did not even care how your accent made it sound so ridiculous, or that my name was too foreign. I wanted you to tell me you loved me for the rest of our time together and speak words of truth.

My ears and neck burn from the ghost of your voice, memories of trailing fingers up and down my skin. I ruined your hair with my wayward hands, but you didn't care. Mine was soon coated in powdered gold.

I pressed a hand to your chest to feel your heartbeat and wrapped that scarf around the both of us, fire all around us. Fire in me. Fire on your lips. My heart.

Your heart was my own swing band, playing furiously, like the world was ending the moment the sun rose. And it was, for us.

My mouth had a hunger only you could satisfy, and my heart had an ache that would not leave, no matter how I pressed your body against mine. I wanted that night to last forever, to feel your warmth until the sky fell around us and the earth reclaimed our bodies, but all too soon we had to kiss for the last time as sunlight tore our world apart.

I want to remember everything and hope you don't mind. If this is too embarrassing to read, I understand. I will be right here ready to make new memories.

My hand in yours forever,

Orad xx

* * *

Faithful Michael,

You

You're

I saw your brother today.

They carried the maimed off a truck that looked like a shrivelled olive and he was there, standing off away from the crowd as the legless and limping and broken were taken to the hospital and barracks, hidden away from the horrified, silent stares of the locals. He refused all help, and refused to go inside with the others. Most of him stood on the pavement, hunched and colourless.

His left arm is still in Burma.

I had to have some news, and besides, in caring about you I grew to care for him too, and we had spoken once or twice before, when he came to collect you. I did tend to steal you away from your countrymen.

Alfred seemed willing to talk to me now, and I lead him away from everyone staring, down to our beach.

I held out as long as I could, and so did he. Alfred talked of the war and losing his arm and watching his friends get gunned down, but he couldn't bring himself to speak of you until I asked.

And so, with my eyes on the sea and ears in hell, I learnt of your fate.

You.

Michael.

Oh, my Michael. One piece of lead.

You've been dead for months.

Yours, devastated,

Orad


	3. No place for the old - LuxMold

_Luca – Luxembourg_

 _Andrei – Moldova_

 _Tsvetan – Bulgaria_

 _Alin – Romania_

 _…_

 _God this is the most miserable thing I've ever written, and that's saying something, let's be honest. Part three of my Poguesverse series, this time with LuxMold and Fairytale of New York. This is also the first story in the series to be told in straight prose and third person._

 _Oh and Bul has an 80s moustache here... because I wanted to?_

* * *

 _"It was Christmas Eve babe"_

* * *

 _Christmas Eve, 1987_

* * *

He looked as dead as the world around him.

His sunken, black eyes remained shut, translucent lips still and chest faintly rising under his gown, so soft it was possible to think his heart had already stopped. Even his hair, once lush and rich, the colour of wine, had been bled of all shine and cut short. The only splash of colour came from a centipede gash in his skull, visible on a shaved patch of scalp.

The room wasn't even a beautiful place to die.

Luca was only sure there were worse places because he had seen them for himself, but this grubby, understaffed hospital was definitely up there for him. The grey walls mirrored the grey faces of those in the beds. The dying. The broken. And Luca's whole world.

Andrei Radacanu didn't have long left. His face blended with the off-coloured sheets Luca tenderly, lovingly arranged around him in some attempt to keep the eternal winter that had plagued this man for five years at bay. The winter that would never relent, stripping flesh from bone and colour from face and any shred of happiness from their lives.

It was Luca's fault. He was the only one to blame and he hated himself for it. He'd sell his soul to go back and stop it happening; hell, he'd sell the world to keep Andrei alive.

The man who said he was worth less than a dollar.

* * *

 _New Year's Eve, 1980_

* * *

"What's a boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Not the best line he could think of, but it still had the desired effect, mostly because he'd whispered it on the stranger's neck, caressing his hair as he slipped into the stool next to him. Music blared and people drank and danced, but he only had eyes for the man sitting alone.

The beauty in question wrinkled his nose. "What are you getting at exactly? This is a nice place."

Luca chuckled, a haughty noise that rang a little too loudly. "This place? Heavens no! Don't you know it's full of all sorts of shady characters?" He leaned in closer, taking a sip of wine. "Horrible people."

The beauty raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Oh yes," Luca continued, "all sorts, just waiting to make a move on a handsome young man such as yourself." He ran a hand through the beauty's hair, nose on his neck. To his credit, the guy didn't shy away.

"Are you calling yourself shady, by any chance?" He took a sip of his own drink; "just how drunk are you?"

"Not very," Luca assured him, "I just know a good thing when I see it."

The stranger's smile fell. "Don't mock me. I'm a dog, I know."

"Who told you that? I'll kill them."

"So you are drunk then."

"Not terribly so," he pulled back and gave the other a smile, "I don't have the time or patience to lie, so let me tell you I am enamoured. Maybe because your hair reminds me of red wine. Or maybe your cute face." He cupped a hand under the beauty's chin, caressing his lips with a thumb. At least he was starting to get the message now.

"Well aren't you a charmer. You got a name to go with those flowery words?"

"Luca."

"Nice, pretty. Like you," the stranger winked, "I'm Andrei."

"Glad to put a name to a pair of lips."

Andrei snorted. "You do this a lot?" He drained the last of his, um, vodka, probably. Luca wasn't one for spirits.

"Occasionally. When I see someone up to my standards."

Andrei fiddled with his tie. "I can't tell if you have low standards or if you're just toying with me."

Luca pouted. "Let me buy you a drink in return for a chance to prove it's neither."

Andrei grinned. "Now you're speaking my language, pretty boy."

Luca ordered a bottle of rosé for them both, and the pair moved to a table in the corner, away from the noise and action and dancing. Pink Floyd was thumping on the jukebox across the room and lights flashed like the Christmas decorations outside. The curved sofa he found himself on was worn and, for some reason, sticky. He tried not to think about it, focusing all his attention on his drink and rather delightful company.

"So what do you do for fun?" asked Andrei, "you know, besides creep on younger guys."

"You can't be that much younger, surely?" Luca shook his head, "and to answer your question, I'm an aspiring playwright."

Andrei laughed. "How pretentious! Just say you're unemployed."

"I have a job as a script editor, I'll have you know!"

"Right, of course. Have you written anything I might have seen?"

"Well, no. That's the whole point of being an 'aspiring' anything."

But all he got was another laugh. "It was a trick question; I've never seen a play."

"How dreadfully uncultured!" cried Luca in offence. "I might have to change that."

"Buy the tickets and I'll go to the opera with you."

Now it was Luca's turn to laugh. "You've got a problem with the opera too?"

"Never looked like something I'd want to spend money on," Andrei shrugged; "you seem like the kind of handsome, distinguished gentleman who could convince me otherwise, though."

A challenge? Well, colour him intrigued. "Let's just see how tonight goes, okay?" he was smiling though, a knowing smile that told them both the night would end pretty well indeed. Andrei's grin in return was simply wicked.

"When we finish this bottle," Luca began, "my I trouble you for a dance? I'd like to see what those legs can do."

Luca always struggled to remember the blur that occurred next, especially years down the line when things took turn after turn for the worse, but there were always details that stood out to him. Some attempt at dancing, for one, lively then slow as night dragged on til morning. The smell of Andrei's hair and his cheap aftershave. How his nose never seemed to leave Andrei's neck for long.

In fact, it took Luca by surprise to find he'd ended up in his apartment at some point during the night. He remembered pushing Andrei onto the bed, Andrei pulling him down and practically wiping his clothes away. Now lips were on his own neck for once, hands everywhere, clumsy, Luca falling back onto his back and moaning shamelessly.

Something about holding Andrei, his voice, his skin against his hands, it made Luca feel complete.

When they awoke the next morning, through their blaring headaches and aching muscles, the two decided to make this a regular occurrence.

* * *

If Luca could have his way, Andrei would die on a hillside overlooking a river twisting and turning through a meadow. Birds would be chirping and Andrei could admire flowers of every colour imaginable, surrounding him like an adoring audience. There would be no dying, dried up petals, only fresh, vibrant colour. He'd be wrapped up in bright, crocheted blankets and Luca's arms. He would be so happy, dying would be an afterthought, the process like drifting into a long sleep.

But, as it was, Luca was lucky he could even keep the man company. A doctor had taken pity on him and looked the other way.

It was clear Luca was more than just the man who 'found him like that', but Dr Bonnefoy just smiled and left him be, and Luca was grateful. A sweet soul such as Andrei did not deserve to die alone.

Luca had to place a hand to his chest to check his heart was still beating. How much time was left?

That new Christmas song he'd grown to hate was crackling in his ear from a radio in the corner.

 _"It was Christmas Eve babe_

 _In the drunk tank_

 _An old man said to me, won't see another one…"_

Luca exhaled sharply. He wanted to switch places with Andrei. Not that he wanted Andrei to suffer this level of emotional torment, just live to see another Christmas.

Or four.

In all honesty, Luca's position wasn't much more appealing.

* * *

 _November, 1982_

* * *

"Um, hey," Luca licked his lips, holding the mouthpiece almost to his teeth and twiddling the cord with his other hand. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Oh, hi," said the oh so familiar voice on the other side, distant and crackling, "Luca?"

"Of course."

"I thought I said lose my number."

He flinched. "I found it again. Look, is it okay if we talk? There's something I wanna say."

No one spoke for a moment.

"Are- are you okay?" asked Andrei, "did… did something happen?"

"What? No, I'm fine. I just missed you."

"Learn to aim the sniper better," Andrei laughed but Luca didn't see the humour. "Glad to know this isn't a 'contact all previous partners' scenario. I have enough to worry about."

Luca chuckled. "No, nothing like that, don't worry." His smile fell. "Are you okay though?"

"Oh it's nothing! Got a bit of the ol' winter flu, y'know? Been cooped up all week and it's not letting up."

"That's too bad," Luca bit his lip, "want me to come round and help out?"

Andrei snorted at that. "You want to look after a sick ex? Gee, I wonder what you're after."

"You got me," Luca laughed nervously, "look, that's what I phoned to talk about."

"Don't go thinking you can use me as a booty call after not speaking to me for eighteen months;" Andrei's voice took on a tone so harsh Luca was left reeling.

"Not at all!" he cried, "I just think, well, I was wondering if you wanted to try again?"

Andrei snorted. "What changed your mind this time? What changed it last time? You just left."

"I never did explain, did I?" Luca bit his lip, wondering if Andrei actually wanted an explanation now or for him to shut up. Would he think Luca was just making excuses?

"No. No you didn't."

He had to try.

"Not a day goes by where I didn't regret it," he tried.

"That's not a reason; that's slimy bullshit."

"My parents were nosing into my life," admitted Luca, "you know: 'when will you find a nice girl?' 'why don't we have grandchildren yet?' Look, I didn't want to give you up but I was scared what would happen if they found out. I… I'm sorry, but I put my comfort before you."

"You put your safety before a casual relationship," said Andrei softly, before coughing, "I mean, if that's true."

Luca grinned. "Aw, you still care about me. That's adorable!"

"I was ready to fucking fall in love with you, you asshole!" Andrei exhaled sharply, loud even through the receiver. "Then you leave with no warning!"

Luca practically deflated. He'd been ready to fall in love with Andrei too, though he'd not admitted it to himself in the 2 years he'd known the guy. He wasn't out, and he wasn't sure he could manage a real relationship because of it. A relationship would be found out eventually, and then it was out of his control; not to mention, he was a romantic. He wanted to shower his partner with affection and let the whole would know how lucky he was to have such a person in his life.

That was how Andrei made him feel.

But Andrei was a man and they'd both probably get fired. Plus, Luca's parents would kill them.

Well, maybe not that extreme but life wouldn't be worth living.

"I'm not leaving this time," he promised, "I'm ready. What will happen happens and I can live with it. Um, reckon you can too?"

He could practically hear the shrug. "Sure. Make sure to pick up soup on your way over."

* * *

 _"So happy Christmas_

 _I love you baby_

 _I can see a better time_

 _When all our dreams come true…"_

Luca hoped he wouldn't cry. He didn't want anyone to see him in that condition, and there would be plenty of time for that when Andrei passed on. Hell, Luca still had a few years to do nothing but cry and mourn and lie in the gutter before joining him.

Andrei still could've had a few more years too if it hadn't been for Luca. They knew Andrei was going first, most likely, but it surely wouldn't have been this quick, right?

No, they'd known guys who'd dropped dead in months. Both of them had been lucky to have had five years together at all.

Luca had been to a lot of funerals recently, but he'd not had to plan one before. Would he even be allowed? Andrei had no family left and a lot of their friends had already died.

Now that he thought of it, Luca might just be inviting his own siblings and no one else.

At least some family members would be there for him; that was something.

Andrei's dreams weren't going to come true.

It had been clear for a while now that both of them had nothing in the way of a future – especially these last few months – that living in the moment was the only option, but Luca had held onto hope. A cure would be found before it was too late and they could go back to their plans for the future. The plans shelved and gazed at longingly.

Even now, a tiny part of Luca still wanted Dr Bonnefoy to rush in with a syringe of some experimental cure that would bring Andrei back from the gates of death.

It wouldn't happen though.

* * *

 _December, 1984_

* * *

Andrei didn't always hate the cold, but he'd lost a lot of weight recently. Luca refused to think about it though.

Andrei was happy, so what did it matter? He laughed as he pulled Luca along, snow laced in his hair and cheeks like a pair of baubles, slipping in the snow as he barrelled towards the carol singers.

They both adored that aspect of Christmas in particular: the music. Whenever one would visit the other's house during the past month, a Frank Sinatra LP, wine and messy dancing was usually involved. Andrei would pull off Luca's tie, and wrap a tinsel one around him instead whilst he himself donned bauble earrings.

Andrei was singing loudly as he crossed the street, clapping along to 'we three kings' before giving a spin, and his coat twirled around him. Luca simply followed, laughing.

It wasn't that he was not feeling the spirit. Well, he wasn't completely, but he would have if not for that damned cold. He took a hearty slug of mulled wine, but it didn't kill his raw throat. It did help distract him from his aching legs, so that was something.

What Luca really wanted was to go home and sleep, preferably curled up next to Andrei, but that would come later. Andrei had heard the choir, but his little fifth-floor apartment just wasn't close enough to appreciate the music.

He could stand to be outside for an hour or so, if that kept Andrei happy. And when they went inside, Andrei could resume singing Christmas singles on the window sill, neon socks swinging in front of the radiator. His personal favourite was 'stop the cavalry'.

Luca, on the other hand, was going to bed.

"Look at those costumes," Andrei gushed, and Luca just had to nod. He could feel a headache coming on and a mouth ulcer had shown up at some point during the day. "Those coats! The shawls! They're perfect!" He clasped his hands together, "I'd love to sew something like that myself!"

Luca hoped it was his imagination, and maybe the streetlights, but Andrei's face seemed to be discoloured. When had it become so yellow? And why hadn't Luca paid attention before.

Oh, right, because anything related to their health was ignored.

Andrei really was getting too thin.

"We're always having openings for this and that at the theatre," he said instead, "maybe I could put a word in for you?"

Truth be told, he'd put a few words in for Andrei already, but the theatre wasn't hiring anyone in the costume department at the moment. They would eventually, right? Christ, his uncle owned the place; how hard could it be to throw his name around to get what he wanted?

Andrei working at the theatre would be incredible. Not only could they steal glances on the job, but Andrei would be living his dream. And he'd make a damned good costume designer too!

It wasn't a guarantee, but it still brought a fire to Andrei's eyes and a smile to his lips. It was a breath of Christmas cheer and boy did Andrei look like he needed it.

Luca's headache seared and he gave a sneeze. Andrei decided it was time to lead him back inside.

Back in Andrei's flat, the two kissed and held each other close, but when Luca's lips strayed, Andrei fell limp. He wasn't in the mood. He was too tired to even think, and Luca had to agree.

When Luca woke up in the middle of the night, Andrei's side of the bed was cold, bathroom light cutting through his vision and the distant sounds of retching could be heard.

* * *

 _1985_

* * *

Andrei refused to see a doctor at first. For months, he would brush off symptoms and problems as Luca finally recovered from his own sickly spell. It was only when he began throwing up blood, feeling like death in the summer sun, that he made an appointment with Dr Borisov, the only doctor he would consider going near.

"I see." Andrei's voice was so small, fragile, that Luca had to wonder if he was there at all.

"Stage 1 is nothing to worry about," Dr Borisov tried to assure him, "even without treatment, you could live for three more years." His face fell, and even his gaudy, awful moustache seemed to deflate; "not that that's at all comforting, but the odds are even better with treatment." He placed a rough hand on Andrei's own, wasted one.

Luca sat next to him in Dr Borisov's office, staring as his knees as a hand stirred his insides until he thought he would be sick. Two words resonated through his head.

Liver cancer. Liver. Cancer.

 _Cancer_.

Why?

When Andrei asked for himself, Luca's head snapped up.

"You drink more than me," Dr Borisov reminded him, "but I think this is the by-product of something else."

Luca was refusing to believe what he was hearing. "There's more?" he croaked. Coherent thoughts were escaping him; there was only waves of outrage and he knew he couldn't stand he was shaking so bad.

He reached a hand out, resting it on Andrei's bony arm and rubbing with a thumb.

"I know you told me you don't want to get tested," Dr Borisov's eyes bored into Andrei, "and I know you're scared, but you have to."

"Tsvetan, please," Andrei begged, "I don't-"

"You too, Luca," said Tsvetan sternly.

"I'm sorry?"

"You mean like how Alin got tested?" spat Andrei before Tsvetan could explain further, "and the doctor told his boss and he got fired?"

Ah, right. Alin. The older brother he'd met a handful of times and got along reasonably well with. The brother so eccentric it was unbelievable. The brother who had planned his own funeral for October. His favourite month, apparently. The funeral was on Halloween and fancy dress. Incredibly tasteless, but it was a dying man's wish. So many people seemed to be dying; maybe he was just trying to cheer everyone up in his own, twisted, way?

"I'll test the both of you myself," Tsvetan assured them, "it's not like I have to worry about catching anything either." He winked, and Luca thought he would throw up as his brain finally caught up.

A virus with no cure.

Both he and Andrei could be dead within years.

* * *

"I guess there's no need to put a word in for me." Andrei was smiling, but he was on the verge of tears. He had been ever since they left Tsvetan's office.

"Now don't say that," Luca choked, "we're still alive! We… we still have time to do what we want."

He leaned against the railing as, behind him, Andrei sank lower, almost curled up on the bench he was sitting on. Before them was the sea, calm and grey like the sky above. Clouds blocked any semblance of sun and Luca was oddly glad of it. The world being happy and alive would just be too cruel to look at now.

"We're dying."

"Exactly. We have to make this time count." Luca wasn't ready. He didn't want to die and the thought of losing Andrei, seeing him waste away, squeezed his throat until a lump formed in his chest and he thought he would break.

And even on top of their, ugh, – Andrei would need chemo and other gruelling treatments too. He might not survive. It might not work. It could spread to the rest of his body and become impossible to get rid of.

Not to mention, Andrei had hidden it for half a year already. All that time without treatment…

Not that Luca was any less guilty of that. Now they were both terminally ill with less time to plan the end of their lives.

"I'm sure you could work your job around your treatment, right?" he asked, "I'm sure your boss could give you the time off; you're a hard worker."

"I'm not getting treatment," he said simply.

"Funny."

"I'm serious," said Andrei, "I can't afford treatment without selling a cancer-free organ and what would even be the point in trying? I'm going to die anyway."

"You can't be serious," Luca practically cried, "come on, dear!" He sank down next to Andrei, taking his hand in his own, gloved ones.

"Knowing me," he sighed, "the last day of chemo will be the day I contract some infection that kills me." The pair tried to smile, but Luca's face just crumpled instead.

"What if I paid for it?" he tried, twiddling his thumbs. Luca had lost a lot of weight, naturally. Or unnaturally. This virus was the single most terrifying thing he'd heard of, even before he contracted it.

Andrei gave a whine. "Don't. Don't go forking out hundreds for me, for Christ's sake."

"What if I wanted to?" he offered.

"And how would your dad feel about all that money going missing from your bank account? To pay for chemo you clearly don't need?"

"What if a cure for our, erm, colds was discovered?" Luca tried, "would you want to live then? Because I couldn't live in a world without you!" He couldn't say it, the name of the virus. It tore out his tongue and clawed at his throat.

It was a while before Andrei spoke again. "I might consider it. But come on, I can't be worth the risk!"

This again? How would he phrase it this time? "You are worth more to me than the rest of the city. Screw it, the world!" He closed his damp eyes, breath hitching, "I don't want to see you die."

"I don't want to think about you dying," Andrei replied. "I hope you live to see a cure, because I don't think I will."

"You might if you got treatment," Luca suggested, "maybe the cure will be found in five years? You might want to survive until then."

"I think, by then, I might be a little too ill to try any treatment," Andrei took a deep breath, and Luca could almost hear his chest rattling.

"Please try. For me."

"Luc." Andrei turned to him, head lolling and eyes drooping, "it's not been a year and I'm fucking exhausted. I don't want to put off the inevitable, especially when it means living in constant pain. I don't want to live like this."

"And what would Alin say to that? Would he want you giving up on life?"

It was like Andrei had snapped. His face was a mess of fire and tears as he balled his fists. "Shut up! He's only been gone a week!"

"There's no need to rush to join him though!" cried Luca, "he's waiting for you patiently and would want you to live!"

Andrei was on his feet now. "What would you know of what he'd have wanted? He's my brother!"

"I know he loved you, very much." Luca sank lower. "Please. Don't give up."

Andrei shook his head. He turned his back on Luca, choosing to glare at the sea instead. "I have, Luca. I don't know why you expected otherwise. And why on earth would you care anyway? I gave you this disease; why would you even want me to live?"

Luca was gobsmacked. His mind shut down as the words Andrei just spoke slowly filtered into his mind. He looked down at his trembling hands.

"You can't honestly think that," he whispered, "Andrei, I love you. I can't live without you. And how the hell could you have known things would turn out like this? You didn't know you were infected! Hell, I might have infected you the first time round, so how can you be so sure it was your fault?"

Andrei shrugged. "It's me though, isn't it? I got ill first."

"It's not certain."

"It is. And I deserve to die," he tried to be flippant, but his voice still hitched, "I practically murdered you. You get the death penalty for murder, right?"

Luca narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to act like you're not scared?"

"Oh no," Andrei turned back to him in tears, "I'm terrified."

* * *

 _"You're a bum_

 _You're a punk_

 _You're an old slut on junk_

 _Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed…"_

Luca wondered if he was allowed to turn that fucking song off. God, he hated it. The words were knives in his chest, a book of all the terrible things he'd done waiting for him when he died.

A nurse strode past and he tugged at the sleeves of his coat.

 _"You scumbag, you maggot_

 _You cheap lousy faggot_

 _Happy Christmas your arse_

 _I pray God it's our last…"_

Luca felt like shit. He was dying but that was at the back of his mind in regards to how overwhelmingly awful he felt. His mind scrabbled for anything that could help here, but somehow things were more hopeless than they'd ever been, than he ever thought possible. Even the more ridiculous notions of a miracle were wiped out by the fact that Andrei was slipping away like he was made of sand, ready to crumble through Luca's fingers.

There was a good chance the song would last longer than Andrei Radacanu.

* * *

 _October, 1987_

* * *

Even the very memory brought another coughing fit as he waited, crouched by the radiator, back baking but legs frozen and stretched out before him. He'd not bothered to turn on the lights because every penny counted now, for the first time in his life.

Luca could feel his father's breath on his face, screaming that he was an ungrateful brat who had thrown everything back in his family's face, spat at his feet. All the clichés. Mr Morgens had given him thousands of dollars to live on, and this was what he did with it? He couldn't even make his family proud in return? All sense of defiance had been stripped from him; there was only guilt left.

He wanted to see Andrei, to find some reassurance that what they had was nothing to feel guilty about.

Luca wasn't sure how they were supposed to survive whatever time they had now. His sister was in Spain, and his brother was at sea and he didn't even want to tell them what had happened. Father would soon tell them and they'd come looking for him.

He didn't want to tell Andrei either.

The foreman had let Andrei go last year, when working became too painful for him. Though he had a new job at a greengrocer's, it had been Luca's insistence on helping him with the rent that was keeping them both housed at this point. Now what?

He was going to be sick.

 _"I'd kill you myself, but God had already given you your punishment. You and this boy were struck down with the gay plague for your sins so don't ask me to help cure him!"_

Luca covered his mouth with a hand as rapid blinking did nothing to dry his eyes. A raspy, drooling cry escaped him, soaking his fingers with spit. His sobs were coughs and the whimpers of a small child.

He didn't hear the footsteps outside, and jumped at the sound of a key in the door. A yellow, flickering, hall light burned his eyes as he shielded himself from the horrified silhouette of his boyfriend.

"Luca? Oh God Luca what's happened?" Andrei was kneeling before him in an instant. "I came as soon as I got your voicemail - what's wrong? Are you ill?"

"I-" Luca thought he would choke, falling forward and clinging to Andrei's coat. He pulled the man close. He threw am arm around him. Maybe he could melt into Andrei, maybe Andrei's beating heart would give him strength.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "I… I told my dad. About you. About us."

"Oh?" Andrei's look of bewilderment soon turned to one of horror, "oh fuck."

"I asked him if he'd pay for your treatment," he admitted, barely audible. "I'm sorry!"

"Luc, I thought we discussed-"

"I'm desperate!" He held Andrei at arm's length, eyes wild, "I can't do it! I can't watch you die!"

"What happened?" was all Andrei cared to reply.

Luca's face crumpled. "He disowned me. He phoned my uncle and got him to fire me too. I… I don't have a job." As he spoke, panic swept disbelief aside at just what was going to happen. "I won't have money for rent… I'm going to be homeless!"

And you know what? Good. He could die in a gutter. Serves him right for messing everything up.

"Like hell you are, you daft boy!" exclaimed Andrei, "you're moving in with me and finding another job."

"Oh, dear, you don't have to-"

"I've been thinking about it for a while now," he gave a shaky smile, "I wanted us to move in together because, damn, I don't like having you pay my rent. I like my independence and if we were living together we'd both be contributing-"

"Oh God, your rent!" Luca buried his head in his hands, "I've killed us both!"

It was only when he felt Andrei squeeze his shoulders that he looked up to find a sad smile greeting him. "Luca, you're not the only person in this relationship. I'm in this for the rest of my life too. You don't need to do this alone, dear."

"But-"

"It's okay, Luca," Andrei pulled him into a hug, "we don't need anyone else. Let's build our own home together."

Luca's laugh brought on another coughing fit. "What happened to not planning for the future?"

"We still need somewhere to live. Why not live together? Supporting each other and getting by." He almost giggled. "It'll be like we were married!"

For the first time that day, Luca felt capable of smiling. "That sounds lovely."

* * *

 _November, 1987_

* * *

"Are you even looking?" He'd paused in the doorway to spit that final line out, their argument apparently not finished yet.

Luca glared from his seat in a battered armchair. He screwed up the newspaper in his bony hands and tossed it aside. "Of course I am!"

Even leaning against the doorframe, clutching his stomach, Andrei held his ground. "Oh really? All you seem to do is mope! I swear you've not left the apartment in weeks!"

"You'd mope too! People know, okay? They can see it on me! One look and it's clear I'm a you-know-what with you-know-what!" He pulled back his sleeves to reveal a white and purple painting up and down his arms. "Do you know how hard it is to hide these things? How do you explain being this thin in this day and age? People know, dammit!"

Andrei bit his lip. "Come on, you'll find something."

Luca was up now, chasing him into the hall. As Andrei held himself up with the banisters, Luca himself was now using the doorway to stay standing. "Throw me into the streets! I can't give you anything!"

"You gave me your heart, right? That's something!"

"Andrei, I'm no good to you. I'm so sorry I can't… I'm going to end up homeless sooner or later." He deflated and Andrei snapped.

"Do you have any idea how worried am! It keeps me awake at night wondering what will happen to you when I'm gone." When Luca stepped forward to hug him, Andrei pushed them both back, holding him at arm's length at the top of the concrete steps. The hallway was dark, and the other residents were probably either too drunk or coked up to even pay attention to yet another couple's argument. The building had probably seen worse.

"I'm sorry," Luca hung his head.

"You're so fucking reckless!" Andrei continued, "could you not have thought of yourself for once?"

"What?!"

"One of the few things I could count on was that, when I died, you would be set up! That you'd be somewhat fine!" He buried his head in Luca's chest, feebly pummelling with his fists.

"Andrei-"

"Now what'll become of you?" The punches grew harder.

"And-"

"Luca I'm terrified! I don't want to die now!"

"Andrei!"

He only meant to pull them apart. He wanted to hold Andrei and shake some sense into him and say something that would reassure them both.

Whatever strength he found to push Andrei away was lost in a moment and he could only watch the man fall out of his grip. Luca didn't have even the faintest hope of stopping him when he tripped on the top step and disappeared into nothing.

With a sickening crack, Andrei's head hit concrete. His limp body slid to the bottom of the stairs and his hair tangled with blood staining the concrete.

"No! Oh fuck, Andrei!" Luca almost tripped in his haste to reach the bottom of the stairs, dropping his knees into red as he scrabbled to hold him. "No, no, no please! Oh God, no please don't-" He cradled Andrei in his arms, screaming wails resounding off the walls like mocking laughter.

Andrei felt cold and broken and dead already.

* * *

 _"I could have been someone_

 _Well so could anyone_

 _You took my dreams from me_

 _When I first found you_

 _I kept them with me babe_

 _I put them with my own_

 _Can't make it all alone_

 _I've built my dreams around you…"_

Andrei was cold. The infection that seized the opportunity when his head split open was winning. Luca hauled himself up to check for a heartbeat, scrabbling for a pulse and unsure if he could feel one. He placed a finger to Andrei's neck, and might have sensed something.

He leaned forward to place one last kiss on Andrei's forehead before calling for the doctor, but the moment his lips touched that frozen face, he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.

"Sir, visiting hours are over," said a grim-faced, stern nurse.

"I'm- Look, can't I stay a bit longer?" he tried, "Mr Radacanu hasn't long left. A few minutes, maybe? Let me stay with him."

The last thing that nurse seemed to want was have Luca in the room for a moment longer. "Sir, you have to leave."

"Please," he breathed, "I'm all he had left. His family died a few years back-"

"You have to leave," she repeated, "don't make me get security."

Luca tried to take her hands, but she recoiled in horror. Could she see the blotches on his arms? Or was it just his hollowed cheeks that gave him away as unclean?

"Don't do this," he sobbed, "he doesn't deserve to die alone!"

And yet, screaming and shouting, Luca was dragged from the ward, clawing desperately for his lifeless love. No matter how he writhed and desperately struggled to break free, he was – not so gently – escorted into the wintry night and left sobbing in the car park.

* * *

Wind stung hid face as he stared sullenly at the river below. The inky black that flashed with the lights of the buildings all around hypnotised him. The wind rattled his bones and numbed his papery skin.

Andrei would be dead now, he was certain of it.

To his own surprise, Luca didn't feel like jumping. Oh, he'd never felt so much despair in his life, and his heart could easily anchor him to the riverbed, but something outweighed the despair. Something strong enough to keep him alive.

Outrage.

His eyes burned and, for the first time in weeks, he was a living person. The bones in his shaking hands stuck out through his gloves as he gripped the railing until he swore he could tear the thing off and wield it as his very own sword.

Andrei's death was going to mean something.

Luca would not stop until there was a cure, until everyone who turned their backs on them – not just Luca and Andrei, but everyone dying from this plague - had no choice but to look them in the eye and see they were human beings, that they weren't going to roll over and die quietly. He would fight. He was going to scream and shout until someone heard him and his story. Andrei's story.

The world was going to know.

With a sigh, Luca decided it was probably time to face their silent apartment, and pulled himself away from the railing. His sister would be around in the morning to take care of him, to discuss their future.

Not to mention, he needed to wish her a Merry Fucking Christmas.


	4. Better days - NedRo

Siemen – Netherlands

Isabel – Belgium

Luca – Luxembourg

Alin - Romania

* * *

Oh look, I've finally finished another fic inspired by a Pogues song! This time it's NedRo to 'Haunting' and the tone is rather… different compared to my other fics. Whilst most stories in the series are rather angst-filled (though there are happier ones scattered in there to mix things up) this one's… well, I don't want to say funny, more stupid and terrible. And most of it's in verse. Because I hate myself. This took months to write and I'm so glad that it's finally finished and I get to share this monstrosity with everyone.

I'm sorry.

Also Ned's name in this is Siemen. Blame Phyripo.

* * *

 _"Sit down on that stool hear the cant of a fool,_

 _And a strange tale I'll impart to ye…"_

* * *

"Opa, will you tell me a bedtime story?"

A big fat 'no' wasn't going to be an acceptable answer here, was it?

The last thing Siemen wanted to do was read anyone a bedtime story, but two pairs of bright green eyes were staring right back at him in the gloom of their shared room and he knew he could spend an hour arguing with a pair of screaming children, or he could just tell them a damn story. At least this way, he could be downstairs with a glass of wine in ten minutes.

Isabel and Luca's room was a mess of toys and clothes and Siemen wasn't sure he'd ever seen two people with so many possessions. When he was a child, he had a few toys and books and a little bike. That was all. How did they even have time to play with all these toys? Especially since he'd never seen Luca play with anything except an iPad and that one plastic cash register.

Okay, maybe he was a little proud of Luca for that one. Especially when the kid short-changed a teddy bear for being rude to him.

He stared down at his grandchildren in despair. They… really wanted a story, didn't they? Was there not something they could watch instead?

No, a story was always the best thing to send a child to sleep with. That was what his daughter insisted when she caught him letting the children watch Watership Down until they fell asleep (the TV show, not the film – he wasn't a monster).

"Okay," he said, voice cracking, "what book do you want?"

"Can't you tell us a story from when you were young?" asked Isabel. "You're so old! You must have interesting stories, right?"

It was illegal to dropkick a small child out the window, right?

"What did you do when you were little?" asked Luca.

"Respected my elders." A fat lie but oh well. It was a lie his family told him to get him to behave. It didn't work but they could sleep easily.

"Did you have TV?"

"Yes but only a few channels," he sighed, "and it was small and grainy." And if anyone knocked the aerial then the image was fucked and he'd miss the end of Floris in the time it took to fix it.

"So what did you do when you weren't watching TV?" asked Isabel.

"Rode my bike." He smiled, remembering the long summer days wasted cycling by the beach in the sun, maybe taking a picnic with him and spending hours just looking at the sea.

If he was being honest, he had to ride his bike everywhere, because he grew up in the countryside and everything was stupidly far away.

It was how he discovered-

That's it!

"What about a story a friend of mine wrote?" he offered. Anything to stop them asking questions about his personal life. Even his wife – God rest her soul – could only recall approximately 5 facts about his life. And that was before the dementia set in.

The kids perked up.

"Well, he wrote poems," Siemen clarified, "but story poems."

Luca's face lit up. "Ooh, like Dr Seuss?"

No, nothing like Dr Seuss. "Oh, sure. Like that."

Leaving an excited pair of grandkids to their chatter, Siemen hauled himself up to shuffle into his room. He always tried to keep everything as organised as possible, a habit that now served him well in his old age. For example, he knew – under his bed – was a battered old suitcase where he kept old mementos regarding a certain someone.

There were two books in the suitcase, one a heavy scrapbook containing preserved leaves and twigs, the other was a notebook on the verge of falling apart.

The unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu, his final volume.

Hand written by Siemen Morgens, upon the poet's insistence.

Most of these could only be described as 'sexually menacing' and certainly not appropriate for adult human beings, let alone children. There was one though…

When he hobbled back to the bedroom, Luca had climbed on the bunk bed to fight Isabel. Again. It was almost perfect, like Alin had planned to have his poem read aloud – for the first time – to a pair of fighting kids.

He snarled and began with a growl.

 _"Sit down ya wee bastard,_

 _I've a tale of disaster,_

 _And romance all to tell ye,_

 _About a young man,_

 _His name was Siemen,_

 _And a strangely attractive ol' tree."_

The kids jumped, Luca falling off the ladder and Isabel looking at him in utter confusion.

"Dr Seuss never swore in his books."

He would if he ever met Alin. "I said it was like Dr Seuss, but not entirely. Now, if you promise to not tell your mother about the bad words, I would like to continue, please."

The kids nodded, eyes sparkling at the thought of hearing 'bad words' with cool Opa Siemen. And keeping a secret from mum.

 _"One night, a cold night,_

 _A night full of fright,_

 _He set off on his little old bike,_

 _Off to a party,_

 _His attire classy,_

 _As the rain it speared like a pike._

 _If a journey could kill,_

 _Oh, this man hated hills,_

 _He much preferred land to be flat,_

 _He was a Dutchman,_

 _So hills he would ban,_

 _If he had the power to do that."_

"Why don't you just get a taxi?" asked Isabel.

"It was the 1960s and I lived in the countryside. We didn't have taxis like those fancy fuckers in Amsterdam. Also I was poor."

Luca laughed at him.

"You shut your bitch mouth."

 _"The rain was too much,_

 _The trip dangerous, as such,_

 _And the hill a steep torrent of mud,_

 _So this man turned around,_

 _For shelter was bound,_

 _Before he got knee-deep in sludge._

 _At the foot of the hill,_

 _Trapped in a chill,_

 _Our hero sat, sulks by a tree,_

 _But lo and behold,_

 _Gnarly and bold,_

 _This tree was in fact me._

 _Now a prankster I am,_

 _And I can't spare a damn,_

 _So as slick and as sly as an oyst-_

 _-er, I bent down to his ear,_

 _And in words loud and clear,_

 _I simply said to him: moist."_

"Your friend isn't very good," Luca commented.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Well, no."

"Then shut up."

 _"He was up like a cat,_

 _Or poker to the back,_

 _And let out a terrible shriek,_

 _His face deathly white,_

 _Oh, what a horrible fright!_

 _Simply too fearful to speak._

 _When nobody was seen,_

 _Except for this tree,_

 _This young man decided to run,_

 _Away from ground haunted,_

 _By ghosts he was taunted,_

 _I, the living tree, he did shun."_

"Your friend… is a tree?" Isabel raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Mum was right; you're a senile old bastard."

"I swear to you it's tr- I'm a what?"

Isabel shrugged. "Her words, not mine."

Siemen glared at her for a long moment. "Can I continue?"

They nodded.

"Good."

 _"Back on his bike,_

 _Almost flew into a dyke,_

 _In his haste to get away from me,_

 _Shaken and shook,_

 _Without a backwards look,_

 _At me, the twisted old tree._

 _For weeks, I, alone,_

 _Just stood and bemoaned,_

 _The loss of a potential new friend,_

 _I want him back now,_

 _My soul he will plow,_

 _Will my loneliness ever just end?_

 _Then one silent night,_

 _A strange speck of light,_

 _This man had come back to me,_

 _Though he was scared,_

 _My power he feared,_

 _A new friendship, could this possibly be?"_

Luca raised an eyebrow. "You went back to the scary old tree?"

Siemen shrugged. There was a time where he'd been less sensible, almost reckless. And maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that ghosts weren't real because, dammit Siemen, you weren't raised to be such a gullible fool.

"If you had found out ghosts were real, would you not want to find out more?"

"Ghosts aren't real, though."

"Well, you are wrong. Very wrong. Wrong and stupid."

Luca began to cry. Because that is what happens when you call a seven-year-old stupid, Siemen.

"Wait, no, I didn't mean it!" he hissed, "please don't tell your mother."

"Give me €20."

"Absolutely the fuck not."

Luca cried harder.

The little fu- "Fine! Here!" He – incredibly reluctantly – opened his wallet and fished out a twenty.

He already knew that smug smile on Isabel's face meant bad news.

"You'll have to pay me to not snitch too," she said slyly. Why did his daughter have to go and have 2 kids?

With a growl, he handed over another twenty. "Can I continue my story now?"

"Sure thing, Opa!"

 _"He kealt at my root,_

 _His glare was acute,_

 _And demanded to know what I was,_

 _Malevolent spirit,_

 _A vision too vivid,_

 _Or was he a cruel laughter's cause._

 _I spoke to him gentle,_

 _A voice thin and fragmental,_

 _I begged him to hear my sad tale,_

 _I meant him no harm,_

 _No need for alarm,_

 _I am but a man, cursed and frail,_

 _Though his eyes showed his fear,_

 _Siemen's 'yes' was sincere,_

 _He wanted to know tragedy,_

 _This blight called my life,_

 _My well-deserved strife,_

 _The price of noxious vanity,_

 _Alin the annoying,_

 _A poet so trying,_

 _A genius hated by all,_

 _Though his rhyme was sublime,_

 _And looks so divine,_

 _He was regarded as quite the arsehole._

 _He made a bet with the devil,_

 _Their power was level,_

 _And he simply won't ever die,_

 _He put a gun to his head,_

 _And in one shot was dead,_

 _In blood did that idiot lie."_

"This moron killed himself to prove he was immortal?" exclaimed Isabel.

"Well how else do you prove it?"

Isabel thought for a moment, then scowled when she couldn't come up with a reply. Ha! That's what Siemen thought!

 _"The devil punished this poet,_

 _Eternal life? He'd bestow it,_

 _Let this man live his mistakes,_

 _Trapped in a tree,_

 _Trickle of time oversee,_

 _Alone in a silent heartache._

 _Well now I have Siemen,_

 _Promised to be my friend,_

 _He'd come back to visit again,_

 _And the next day he came,_

 _My heart was aflame,_

 _This feeling spread like a bloodstain."_

"Eugh," Luca pulled a face. "A tree fell in love with you?"

"A tree that used to be a man, mind you."

"It's still weird. I mean, you couldn't fall in love with a tree back, right?"

Siemen fell silent. His grandchildren looked at him in horror.

"Well it's more about personality, you see."

"And what kind of personality did Alin have?" asked Isabel.

"A horrible one." They both raised their eyebrows. "Not really. Well, he was very strange, but I couldn't help liking him. He was funny, and witty. And, well, I don't know." He could feel a blush creeping onto his face, and wanted to punch every single one of his blood vessels. "I just found him charming."

Luca stared at him for a good minute. "Wait, are you saying this actually happened?"

"Of course."

"You're senile."

"Sinterklaas isn't real."

Five minutes of crying, and a €30 bribe later, Siemen turned back to Alin's poem.

 _"Our friendship, it grew,_

 _To the town's harsh ado,_

 _Their tongues, like me, were thorny,_

 _Though we broke the taboo,_

 _Our hearts painted rouge,_

 _The truth was he made me so-"_

Sieman stopped. Why, Alin? "Oh no, that's a bit too rude." As were the next few verses, it seemed. And this was supposed to be one of the cleaner poems.

"We sat in the sun and he told me poems," he explained, in the hopes of distracting his grandchildren from the prospect of something with a rude word in it, because holy fuck did children love rude words and he couldn't have them asking their mother what 'horny' meant. "We talked about our lives and grew closer. He had a lot of interesting stories, though I'm not sure just how many were actually true."

He desperately scanned the poem for something that was't complete and utter filth, vaguely remembering just how disgusted he felt hearing it from Alin's voice all those years ago.

Ah! Here we go!

 _"Our cruel reputation,_

 _Across this flat nation,_

 _The madman who French-kissed a tree,_

 _I go naked in winter,_

 _His lip has a splinter!_

 _And his step-child a family of bees!"_

Well, it was cleaner than the last seven verses. Isabel still looked disgusted though. He couldn't blame her. It took him a week to get that splinter out. And that was just the one he got on his lip.

 _"Our time was a blast,_

 _But it could never last,_

 _He was a human and I just a tree,_

 _I had stood here for years,_

 _Cried cold, lonely tears,_

 _What I wanted was my soul's release._

 _What I ask of you dear,_

 _I make this quite clear,_

 _To go set me free at last,_

 _Take your little axe,_

 _Plunge it into my back,_

 _And chop me up quite fast._

 _I know you will miss me,_

 _With ice where you kissed me,_

 _But the only way to break my cruel curse,_

 _Is to chop me down,_

 _My spirit set down,_

 _Your axe shall be my own nurse._

 _I'm ready to die,_

 _My soul has run dry,_

 _And my bark has grown dark and inky,_

 _So cut down this tree,_

 _And let me be free,_

 _In fact, I'll find it quite- God fucking dammit Alin!"_

"He'll find it quite what?" asked Isabel.

"…Stinky?"

"That's not the word! We're not idiots!"

Siemen had had quite enough at this point. "It is the word now shut up and go to sleep!" And he left the kids to their protesting, turning off the light and creaking downstairs to find that wine bottle. After locking up the unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu somewhere innocent eyes couldn't find them, of course.


	5. Love you til the end - RoPort

_João - Portugal_

 _Alin - Romania_

 _Dr Vynnychenko - Ukraine_

 _Tsvetan - Bulgaria_

 _Andrei - Moldova_

 _Iacob - parent oc, belonging to tikolanesla_

 _..._

 _Hi there, long time no see, i guess. I've been working on this for ages now, and it just kept getting longer and longer. At least now it's done, I can work on something else._

 _I'm pretty proud of this, though, and excited to finally share it with everyone! Or the 5 people interested in reading a RoPort, I guess._

 _Anyway, this is the 5th fic in a series of mine, inspired by Pogues songs. This one, obviously, is based off of 'love you til the end'. This one is standalone, and not tied-in with any other fics. Hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

 _"I just want to see you_

 _When you're all alone_

 _I just want to catch you if I can_

 _I just want to be there_

 _When the morning light explodes_

 _On your face it radiates_

 _I can't escape_

 _I love you 'till the end..."_

* * *

"I, João Guilherme Pinto do Nascimento Pessoa, promise to love and cherish you forevermore. I promise to light up your life in any way that I can, be there for you, and support you in all you desire. I will never leave your side; I will be your rock, for you are my true love. I love you, and I will never stop proving it to you and myself. I promise to love you 'til-"

The words caught in his throat. A pair of sharp, clever eyes held his gaze and slender fingers squeezed at his hands.

He could do this, for his groom.

"'Til death do us part."

* * *

"The marriage won't be recognised when we get home," he remembered Alin commenting. "Hell, I don't even think my friends will either, but for – you know – different reasons."

He remembered everything about that moment, the way the Spanish sun had filtered through the cracks in the curtains to set them aflame as they held each other in Alin's hotel room. Tomorrow, they'd be on their way to the airport, and João wouldn't see his husband for a month.

João had simply tucked a lock of Alin's hair behind his pointy little ear and kissed him deeply. "It doesn't matter," he had replied, "surely any fool, upon seeing us, will recognise love." His fingers were still tangled in Alin's hair, beautiful silk that washed over his skin.

Alin smiled against his lips. "I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you to the stars and back my dear," João whispered.

After a moment, Alin gave a huff. "My family aren't going to believe I got married. I've only been gone a week."

"I'll be with you soon," João kissed his nose, "then I can meet your loved ones and prove I truly care for you. Because I do."

"I've never doubted it in all the time we've known each other."

João had to laugh.

* * *

"João Guilherme Pinto do Nascimento Pessoa, I fucking swear-"

"João Guilherme Pinto do Nascimento Pessoa-Radacanu, my dear. Don't you leave out his beautiful surname-"

"That's not the point! Or is, it is the point! You've known him a week and you married the man?!"

Antonio looked like he was wasn't sure whether to explode or implode. He settled for pacing the kitchen and making gestures like it was paining him to not wring João's neck. João, for his part, just leaned against the counter, watching his brother get it out of his system.

"What were you thinking, you fool? You should wait a month at the very minimum before marrying a person you just met!"

Only when compared to João could a man who would marry someone within a month of meeting them be considered the less stupidly – hopelessly - romantic one, but even Antonio had to admit João went too far whenever he fell for someone. The man wore his heart on his sleeve and his dick dangling out of his trousers, and had had many a relationship fail after he'd proposed a little too soon. Whether it was five minutes, or he'd managed to last a whole three days before popping out mamá's – God rest her soul - engagement ring, it was always too soon. You'd think that ring was carrying a curse, the way João seemed to determined to get rid of it.

If he was lucky, he'd be politely and awkwardly turned down, but – on more than one occasion – he'd gotten a flute of champagne in the face and a slap.

And now, be some sheer-miracle-come-cruel-twist-of-fate, the fool had actually found someone as passionate (senseless), as he was.

"Do you know anything about this Alin person?" he cried, "do you even know his last name?"

"Of course! Radacanu. You… tend to use full names at a wedding, Toni."

"I'll give you that, fine, but what else? You can't know everything you need to know about someone after just a few days!"

João gave himself a moment to compile a list. "His name is Alin Radacanu, as I've mentioned. He's 24; he runs a cryptid sighting blog and travels across the world looking for them himself, when he has the money; in his spare time, he collects tarot cards and is a Sagittarius. He both reads and writes romantic poetry, and loves fairy stories, oh, and claims to host the best Eurovision parties."

Antonio had to sigh; "he really is your perfect guy, I'll give you that."

"And he's also really into BDSM."

"Be that as it may," Antonio had to wonder – not for the first time – why he hadn't just eaten João in the womb, "don't you think you could've given yourself more time to really get to know him and see what it would be like spending time with him on a day-to-day basis?"

João raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that? I love him! I know I want to be with him, and we truly have no time to waste." Now it was his turn to pace, anything to not think about how Alin was currently on the other side of Europe. "We had a week together, a magical, wonderful week, and that was enough. Even this month I need to plan my moving to Romania will be hell." He clasped Antonio's hands in his, "I need to be with him. I need to feel his flesh on my own-"

"Yes, I know!" Antonio tore his hands away. "I got your letter. All ten explicit, horrifying pages." Truth be told, he'd stopped reading after the first paragraph due to nausea and proceeded to burn the entire thing, but João didn't need to know that.

"So, you understand that I need to do this?"

"Still no. I don't understand this at all. How can you know he's worth moving all the way to Romania? Living the rest of your life with some man you just met?"

"It won't be the rest of my life," said João quietly.

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yeah, I suspect that the marriage will fail within a few months, maybe a year if you're lucky, but-"

"Toni, he has three years to live."

* * *

They'd first met by the poolside. João knew he was special from the moment he clapped eyes on the weirdo in the bat print Victorian-style bathing suit and parasol. He swaggered into view, surveying the horrified holidaymakers with glee as he decided on a place to sit.

To João's utter delight, the strange stranger came over and sat right next to him.

"You know," he began, sprawled out on the sun lounger, "if I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put your dick in my arse."

João was in love.

The guy was even cuter up close, with a heavy lisp and dream-catcher earrings the size of his head. His honey-coloured hair was pulled into a messy half-ponytail, barely covering pointy ears. And he had a fang. An actual, real-life fang. It explained the lisp. Also his near-white foundation didn't match the colour of his neck.

He was utterly beautiful.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said with a purr, taking the stranger's hand and giving it a kiss. "And I must say, you have incredible tastes, both in clothing and men."

The stranger bit his lip, looking away adorably; "I can't tell if you're making fun of me or not."

"No, of course not," João traced circles over the back of his hand, "you're beautiful. Please, sit with me for a while."

The stranger burst into tears. So, he hadn't sealed his makeup.

"What's wrong?" cried João, wrapping his arms around the stranger, "please, I meant no offense." People were staring, which made the stranger bury his face in his hands and look like he wished he was anywhere else. So João lead him away, out of the pool to a patch of woodland just outside where he could cry in peace.

And cry he did. João held the stranger as he sobbed onto his shoulder, ignoring the makeup now mixed in with his body hair. He rubbed the guy's back, ignoring the noisy wailing right in his ear, whispering that it was okay.

He still didn't know what he'd done wrong.

Eventually, the stranger stopped, pulled away, stared at João for a moment, then kissed him.

It was probably the wettest, sloppiest kiss João had ever received, and he'd kissed most of the Iberian peninsula at this point. He wasn't complaining, though. His fingers even found their way into the stranger's hair.

When the guy pulled away, he bit his lip sheepishly, blushing and looking down at João lovingly.

"Alin," he mumbled, "my name is Alin."

João blinked.

"I… feel I should tell you my name, if I'm gonna be doing that," he smiled and wiped his eyes; "sorry about... yeah. It's been a rough month."

"It's fine, trust me," João kissed him. He'd had five breakups this month alone; he understood. "Want to-"

"Go back to my room?" asked Alin with a hint of desperation, "I mean, I just want to forget for a while. What's your name? Probably should ask that."

"Erm, João Guilherme Pinto do Nascimento Pessoa. Please call me João, my dear." Alin nodded. "Look, I really don't mind if you want some, well, you know, amorous congress."

"You don't?" Alin looked at him incredulously. "Even though we just met?"

João shrugged. "You… seem like you have some things to work out."

* * *

Apparently Alin had been in such dire need of de-stressing, that João had ended up having the best boning session of his life. He didn't know how, but Alin left him crying in a puddle of sweat, speechless and formless with a good clump of his hair pulled out. Curled up next to him, Alin was crying again.

João held him tight. He looked so vulnerable when he wasn't going down on him, and now João just wanted to protect him, and never let him go.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing Alin's forehead, "please marry me."

Alin looked at him like he was mad. He was very familiar with the look, so familiar he might as well marry it.

"Too soon?" he asked, "I understand, it's just I'm awfully enamoured, and - and I thought, since you apparently trust me enough to let me choke you, and, well, my mamá always said when you find a good thing, keep a hold of it and you are a good-"

"I have terminal cancer."

* * *

"You got _married_?"

Alin looked up at his doctor with a sheepish smile, biting the inside of his mouth and sitting on his hands awkwardly. Dr Vynnychenko looked at him like he'd finally lost his mind, pacing her office as if that would make sense of the whole thing. Maybe a tumour had lodged itself in his brain while he was on holiday. He didn't know; he wasn't a doctor.

"It's not like I have long left," he reasoned, "might as well make the most of it."

Dr Vynnychenko thought for a moment, shrugged, offered him a sympathetic smile, and sat back down.

He liked her office. Yes, none of his memories of the place itself were pleasant, but he had to admit the diagrams of the body on the wall, and her little bowl of decorated eggs had become weirdly comforting to him over the last few months. Familiar. He knew he was in good hands.

"And you… you two are happy together?"

Alin nodded.

"And he knows about…" she gestured vaguely, "you?"

"Yeah, that's why he agreed to move in with me, until… until…" He looked at his knees. They were always stupidly pointy, like the rest of him - his brother said cuddles were a nightmare because of it - but lately, they seemed to just be bone. He had to wonder if his legs would actually get any thinner. When… when…

He looked at his hands, riddled with guilt. Dr Vynnychenko knew him well enough to pick up on it.

"Yes?" she asked, drawing out the question. He couldn't look at her.

"I told him I had three years." He had less than one. If he was lucky.

"Why on earth-"

"I couldn't- He was so happy about proposing and he promised he would love me until the very end. He said he was happy to come here and stay and look after me, I-" He hung his head. "I thought, because he was making such an effort to be there and he didn't even know me, I could make an effort to stay alive a little longer." He sniffed and wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. "I feel terrible for lying, but I couldn't hurt him with the truth!"

He heard Dr Vynnychenko sigh.

"If- If I choose to have treatment," he began, "would I-"

"You… might get two years out of it at this point, but that's just a rough guess. We would have to see how the cancer actually responds to it."

He wished he'd gotten treatment earlier. He wished he'd gone to the hospital earlier instead if hiding the symptoms for so long. He couldn't help it, though; he'd been scared. If he didn't get it checked out, he could keep ignoring the problems forever. He could pretend nothing was wrong, that he was just under the weather.

"I'll take it," he said, reaching over to clutch Dr Vynnychenko's hands. "Whatever it takes, whatever you want me to do, I'll do it just to spend more time with João. It's what he deserves."

"Well, the cancer has spread out of your liver, to several parts of your body, as we've discussed. You're going to need some serious chemotherapy."

"You mean like that teeny tube thing that you're gonna insert into the artery in a place only meant to be treated nicely?" he asked, already feeling faint. There was a reason he'd declined treatment before: he was a complete and utter coward.

"No, that was only for making sure it wouldn't spread beyond your liver whilst waiting for a transplant. You're going to need a pretty hefty course and this will have more side effects."

"Like losing my hair?"

Dr Vynnychenko nodded. "You're also going to be very sick, I'm afraid. These won't be a comfortable few years, though we'll be doing everything we can to make your passing-" Alin winced. "Um, everything, as painless as possible."

"And if not," Alin tried to laugh, "well, I don't mind a bit of pain. Or- or discomfort. Preferably in the bedroom, not a hospital."

Dr Vynnychenko gave him a stony look.

"Mr Radacanu, we've talked about-"

"I know, I know," he laughed a forced, uncomfortable laugh, "just let me have my joke, just this once. I'm scared, okay?"

* * *

Tsvetan was there to pick him up from the hospital, like he said he'd be, leaning against his blue piece of shit car and smoking a cigarette. Alin gave him a teary smile as his friend pulled him into a hug. He promptly started crying on his shoulder.

"Um, there, there?" Tsvetan awkwardly stroked his hair. Tsvetan feared emotions like turkeys feared Bernard Matthews, and no one was quite sure just how his and Alin's friendship had survived all this time. And yet, it had, and Alin was grateful.

He smiled through his tears and the tickle of Tsvetan's cigarette-infused hair.

"Thanks, mate." Tsvetan tried, and lately he'd been trying a lot harder, to show emotions like a person. And make Alin feel comfortable.

"Want to go get shitfaced?" Now, this was more like Tsvetan.

Alin, for the first time in his life, shook his head at that. "Nah, I think there's been enough damage to my liver already."

Tsvetan raised his eyebrow. Yeah, fair enough. "Since when did you care about your body? It doesn't exactly care about you."

 _Nice, Tsvetan._

Alin just shrugged. "Look, maybe I should… well, I need to start. I don't want my man travelling all the way from Portugal then I just die on him after a few months."

"So… because you've gone and gotten married, you're gonna start trying to survive?" He huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "I guess it wasn't quite the stupid decision we all thought it was, then."

* * *

Alin was there to greet him at the airport.

João's suitcase clipped at his heels as he ran and he buckled a few times, but he kept running, pulling his headphones out of his ears after 3 hours of duolingo Romanian, right into Alin's arms. He enveloped him, holding him tightly in his arms and swaying him from side to side. It had been slow, cruel torture: being so far apart from him, not being able to reach out and touch Alin. He'd spent the past month longing to run his hands through the man's hair, cup his face, taste his lips.

"Woah, go easy on me," he laughed, "I need to go hospital tomorrow. Can't have you destroying me before that." His smile fell. "It's my… my first chemo, actually. I'll need all the strength I can get."

He looked smaller, terrified. João held him close. "You can do this. Hey, I'll be here to support you, and your family will too."

Alin's smile was back. He looked so sweet and genuine that João couldn't help covering him in kisses.

"Come on," said Alin, laughing, "you have to meet my family!"

* * *

João had heard a lot about Alin's family. He lived with his father, Iacob, and little brother, Andrei, in a house on the edge of Bucharest. João's new home. A place he's never been to, and yet he was going to live in. For the next three years. And then what? He supposed he'd have to go home, but who knew?

They were driven home from the airport by Alin's best friend, a gruff, dour man called Tsvetan, who tended to look at João like he'd just walked into the guy's house and peed on the carpet. João also suspected the man was imagining his face as he aggressively stamped out his cigarette butts on the pavement.

João couldn't help feeling nervous about meeting the Radacanus, particularly after the frosty reception from Tsvetan. Did they all hate him? Was it because he was a man or the whole married-after-one-week thing? Would he now spend three years being treated like dirt, for the sake of being near his love? He would endure it all, for Alin.

As they pulled into the driveway, a teenage boy, in patchy booty shorts and a fur coat with mange, ran down the garden path, crashing into Alin as he got out of the car and hugging him tightly.

"Al! Hey did you have a safe journey?"

"No, I died on the way home. I'm a ghost and I'm totally gonna haunt you for the rest of time. Anyway, this is my husband, João! Here he is in all his beauty!"

"Hey João!" Andrei jumped over the hood of the car to shake João's hand just as he'd finished pulling himself out of Tsvetan's tiny car. He was amazed that thing had made it out of the airport carpark, let alone all the way here. "I'm Andrei! I've heard so much about you, because Alin literally never shuts the fuck up about how much he loves you!" Well, colour João flattered. And more enamoured than he already was.

"Can you blame me!" Alin pulled João into a hug. "Look at him! Look at his face and hair and smile and mole and everything! And he has interests and opinions and hobbies!" He kissed his cheek, clasping his chin in a hand. "God I'm so happy to finally live with you. My husband. Love of my life." He covered his face in kisses, and João laughed.

"Hey, come on, try not to kiss me to death before I can meet your dad."

"Not possible. He's just there. See?" Alin, hand still on his chin, spun João around so he was able to see the strangest middle-aged man of all time. Alin had been very sparing with the details on his father, and João was starting to see why.

He had long, wispy hair, much like his sons, that came down to his shoulders, a kind smile and - for some unknown reason - a fedora decorated with a stuffed bird. A real bird too, by the looks of things, and not particularly well-preserved. It looked like an amateur had stuffed it, and stuck googly eyes on it too. He was also wearing an entire snake. Not a snakeskin belt, just an entire snake. There was also an entire fox corpse dangling from his shoulders like a scarf.

"Mr Pessoa," Iacob clasped his hands in his, smiling warmly, "good to meet you at last, my boy. May I call you João?"

"You may, sir," João pulled his new father-in-law into a hug. He smelt of musty cat and formaldehyde, and João couldn't help being nervous at that.

"You are just as how Alin described," said Iacob.

"In explicit detail," added Andrei, sounding exactly like Toni.

João smiled at that. "Oh, I am nothing to boast about. Alin here is an extraordinary young man."

"All I did was get really sick," Alin shrugged, and Tsvetan awkwardly wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and it may have been João's imagination, but he swore the man pushed him away. He decided to ignore it.

Alin shrugged Tsvetan off and took João's hand. "Come on, I'll show you to our room!"

He lead him up uneven steps, and João traced his fingers over the ivy climbing up trellis and faded, white walls, patting a gargoyle on the head. It was a beautiful old house, and he was giddy at the thought of living here for the next few years, writing poetry amongst books and characterful furniture, looking out at the garden and his beloved muse.

When Alin opened the front door, his gaze of wonder turned to one of horror. The entire front hall was filled with taxidermied animals, from teeny tiny mice, to a whole bear. They were all decorated for Halloween, too. Tackily. There were witches hats, otters dressed as pirates, white sheets draping from what could've been deer heads, and the mice had extra limbs sewn on to look like spiders.

The bear had spider nipple clamps too. Six.

João could not believe his fucking eyes. For a second, he wondered if this was some elaborate, but cruel prank show and he'd end up crying to Toni with a broken heart.

Then he saw Alin looking at him nervously, and realised this was all horrendously true, and this is where he'd be living from now on if he didn't do a runner.

"I know it's a little, well, eccentric, but it's dad's hobby and it makes him happy. And we all like Halloween."

But, looking at Alin, he knew he couldn't do it; he would live in the worst house in the world, to make him happy. He took Alin's hand.

"My love, I think you and your family are wonderful people, and your eccentricities make you far more enjoyable to be around. Who wants to live with boring people?" He tried not to make eye-contact with any dead animals as he said that. It was impossible.

"You haven't even seen the wine cellar-come-family crypt yet," said Andrei, walking past with a grimace. A crypt? There were coffins full of relatives in the cellar? He wasn't even horrified at that; Alin's goal in life was to become peak goth.

"You love it down there," hissed Alin.

"I love the wine! Not mum and her - ugh - lingerie."

" _Your mum was buried in her lingerie_?" João shook himself. "Apologies, I meant to say sorry for your loss."

"Oh no," said Alin, "no one in the crypt is buried. Radacanus get taxidermied when they die. Any pose they want, any outfit. I'm gonna be in my boxers playing undertale."

João couldn't believe his ears. As much as he wanted wine, he was never going in that cellar ever. Also he was terrified. Just how many formaldehyde-covered bodies were in this house?

"That was his _second_ choice," muttered Andrei, which Alin followed up with gestures. "Also, never go down there at the same time as dad. He really misses mum."

"That's… well, it's weird, but in a wonderful goth kinda of way. You deserve a castle to paint and write poetry in." João rubbed the top of his arm.

"Every removal company in Bucharest have Radacanus blacklisted," said Iacob. "Ever since my grandad moved here, with granny and her burlesque pose." João didn't blame them one bit.

"Pity, you deserve a castle."

"Not to mention I'd die before the mortgage had to get paid. Literally the only good thing about death."

Alin kissed his cheek, and when João glanced behind them, he noticed Tsvetan glaring at them with utter poison, just for a second, before glancing away.

* * *

That night, as João held Alin in his arms, and the skunk on the bedside table gazed at him through the gloom, he obsessed over that glare, holding the memory in his mind like a pebble, turning it over and over to examine every little detail.

"Babe?" Alin mumbled, lashes brushing against his neck.

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong? Your aura seems sad."

"I'm just thinking. Tsvetan… he doesn't like me?"

"No, he doesn't seem to. He tells me everything, but that's one mystery he refuses to talk about."

"Is it because I am a man?"

"No, no, Tsvetan is gayer than myself, somehow. He would never hate another LGBT person. Unless they were a dick."

"I have not been a dick," said João, "at least, I doubt it. Maybe he thinks it is too soon, too. Whatever it is, I will prove myself to him." Though Alin soon fell asleep in his arms, João thought about Tsvetan until the early hours of the morning, wondering just what he'd done to upset him.

* * *

A few months in, João finally found out why.

"It's lovely," Alin told him, posing in the mirror as he modelled his new wig. "Exactly what I'd have picked!" It was black, and flopped over one side of his face. João had seen Alin with similar hairstyles in photos from when he was an awkward, lanky teen. He'd been so cute, with his braces and more piercings sticking out of his face than a voodoo doll. He'd also had a voodoo doll in one picture, hanging from a tatty bit of string round his neck with the word 'haterz' written on it in red paint.

João had fallen even more in love at that.

Alin bounced up and down in front of the mirror, gave a twirl, and skipped over to hug João. "You're the best," he chirped, kissing him on the nose.

From the corner of the room, Tsvetan scowled at them, arms folded as he leaned against the wall.

"Hey!" Alin was already laughing, in that way he did when he was about to tell a terrible, terrible joke. "It's a chemo wig! Geddit?"

João laughed with him. He didn't always get Alin's humour, and at times it weirded him out, but he knew it was the only thing that kept the guy going at times so he played along.

Tsvetan stormed out of the room.

"Tsvet-"

"I'll talk to him," said João with a reassuring smile, "you sit down and relax." Alin nodded shakily and sank into an armchair. João gave his shoulder a squeeze and left to find Tsvetan.

He found him in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of rakia and sitting at the table to glare at it. When he heard João enter, he didn't look up and downed the whole thing in one go.

João stood in the corner awkwardly. "Senhor Borisov? Tsvetan?" Tsvetan's eyes shot up, and he stared João down with the most poisonous glare. "Are you okay?" he tried, "what's wrong?"

Tsvetan seemed to contemplate answering, and eventually gave in, after a moment or so at war with himself. "Why are you pretending you love him?"

João blinked. "Because I do?"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm no-"

"No, you cannot possibly love him!" He'd never seen Tsvetan cry before; João hadn't known the man could, not in front of others, at least. He was on his feet now, glass in his fist as he debated throwing it at him.

"But I do!" João insisted, "I love him so much! I love him so much I'd sell my soul to keep him alive! I'd become Orpheus for him!" He tried to take his hand.

"No, no you don't," Tsvetan looked at him in disgust and backed away. "You don't know him! You never saw him grow up, never helped him through life as he became a man, you weren't even there when he was diagnosed! You have done nothing for him!"

"And you did," said João softly.

Tsvetan didn't look at him, wiping his face. "Where were you when he started planning his own fucking funeral?"

João understood. He stepped forward, holding out his arms to hold then man because God he understood. Tsvetan pushed him away.

"You're in love with Alin."

Tsvetan said nothing, jaw clenched.

"I'm so sorry, my dear. It can't be easy-"

"It should have been me!" Tears streamed down Tsvetan's face as he appeared torn between screaming at João and running away from any talk of his feelings.

"I was there for him! I was the one who loved him all these years, protected him, wiped his tears! Who are you to take him from me? Who are you to waltz in and pretend to love him whilst he dies?"

"I do love him!" he was shouting now, in a voice he'd long forgotten he possessed; "I wouldn't be here if I didn't!"

Tsvetan glared at him.

"You don't know me! And you have no right to talk like you do!" João continued, "when I love, I give my entire being, and I give my entire being to Alin, because I love him more than myself. And yes, I wasn't here before, but I'm here now and I'm here to stay."

His gaze softened.

"I know the heartbreak of unrequited love, and know it well. It is a torture so evil nothing humanity could invent comes close. To watch the person you love with another is to have your heart torn out of your chest every hour." He remembered - painfully - that time he'd waited a month to propose to someone and they'd just freaked out and told him they weren't even dating.

Tsvetan shook his head. João pulled him into a hug, and this time he faced no resistance.

"Alin is the only one who matters right now," he continued, "please, we don't have long with him. Don't destroy our happiness. You'll have forever to hate me… after…"

Tsvetan didn't speak for a long moment. "I'm not going to come between you," he promised, "I might even learn not to hate you, but please, please, look after him."

"I will love him enough for both of us," João promised in return.

* * *

For the first year of their marriage, João could pretend everything was fine. He took Alin to hospital, supported him through his treatment, and he could almost forget Alin was dying, with a lot of denial and pretending. He was sick, and João couldn't hide that, but he could almost kid himself that it was not terminal, that he was getting his treatment and would be on the mend soon.

But that was not the case, and by the second year, he was starting to panic, pleading with death to spare Alin.

If dying was scaring Alin in any way, he was keeping it to himself. He just went about his business, though he was too frail to leave the house for long, or even walk around for more than five minutes at a time.

That didn't stop him from living life the best he could.

His wig tickled João's nose as they danced together, João holding him close and supporting him as he danced weakly. Alin sang along softly, tripping over his words and lisping.

 _"I just want to be there_

 _When the morning light explodes_

 _On your face it radiates_

 _I can't escape_

 _I love you 'till the end…"_

João joined in, stroking his neck, watching lamplight dance through black hair.

 _"I just want to tell you nothing_

 _You don't want to hear_

 _All I want is for you to say_

 _Why don't you just take me_

 _Where I've never been before_

 _I know you want to hear me_

 _Catch my breath_

 _I love you 'till the end…"_

"I need to sit down," Alin mumbled apologetically, untangling himself from João and collapsing on the sofa next to Andrei. Iacob was in the armchair in the corner, working on a dog he'd found on the street earlier that day.

Andrei snuggled up to his brother and stroked the back of his hand. Alin, apparently tired of scratching his head, took off his wig and flung it across the room.

"Wig flew!" he cried.

"Yeet!" said Andrei.

Iacob stared at his sons in bewilderment. João smiled at them all, stood in the corner listening to the music.

 _"I just want to see you laugh not cry_

 _I just want to feel you_

 _When the night puts on its cloak_

 _I'm lost for words don't tell me_

 _Cause all I can say_

 _I love you 'till the end…"_

Alin was going to die.

And there was nothing João could do about it.

Yes, he'd known all along, and Alin never shied away from the topic, but it had never been real before. It was like a glass wall had stood between João and the truth, one that life had just taken a sledgehammer to.

He couldn't hide the tears.

"Dear?" Alin asked, once he'd noticed. "What's wrong?"

João froze. He didn't know what to say, not here in front of his family. They were staring at him now. He couldn't breathe. He had to go.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, before bolting for the door.

He stumbled into his and Alin's room, almost knocking over the lynx in the corner before flopping onto the bed. He was being selfish. Alin was the one who had reason to cry, not him. Now guilt was joining the mess of emotions in his head as he pulled out his phone. Toni. He needed to speak to Toni.

"Hello? João?"

"Hey Toni," he sobbed, barely audible, "just… just wanna say 'hi'."

"What's wrong?"

Even if he'd been trying to stay composed, João could never lie to his twin. "Alin's dying."

"Yeah? I thought you already knew that?"

"Shush, Toni," despite his attempts, he couldn't help bursting into tears. João had always considered himself a beautiful crier, everything involving romance an art for him, down to heartbreak. The noises he made here, though, were ugly, and his face grew hot and blotchy. "I- It hadn't… I can't watch him die! I love him! Please, Toni, I can't say goodbye to him yet!"

There was a pause. "I'm so, so sorry. I… I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now."

"I told myself I knew what I was getting into," João whimpered, "but, Toni, I've never felt this way about someone before."

"No one agreed to marry you before." Toni, quite helpfully, didn't point out that João had said that about everyone he'd fallen for. This time, it seemed quite genuine. No, not genuine. Toni meant believable. He'd often questioned João's feelings before, because there was no way someone could genuinely fall in love as often as he claimed to, but he loved Alin. He loved that man with everything he had.

"Exactly! God can't present me with true love and take him away like this. Unless I'm a bad person. I'm not a bad person, am I?"

"No, João, of course not. These things just… happen, y'know? We just have to make the best of life, because we're all dying. Your husband just happens to be the Usain Bolt of dying."

He gave a wail. "Antonio!"

"Apologies. Look, this isn't your fault, or his fault, and I know there's nothing I can say to make you feel better, but I have to tell you: don't waste your time crying to me. Spend your time with Alin, make the most of what you have left. You'll have plenty of time to cry on my shoulder later."

João nodded. "You're right, Toni my dear."

"Take care, João. Give Alin my love."

"I will, see ya." He hung up, and heard the shuffling of footsteps behind him, and found Alin hobbling into the room. He settled down on the bed, glancing over with teary eyes.

"Hey, love," João sat next to him, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand. Alin rubbed his hand like a cat.

"João?" He asked miserably, "do you regret being with me?"

João pulled him into a tight hug. "Never. I seldom regret, but if I had to pick something, I would never regret marrying you. I just wish there was something I could do, either magic it away or take your place."

"That's sweet of you, but at this point, I just want the pain to go away. I'm looking forward to a rest."

"You still got a whole year and a half to go, though. We just gotta make the most of it, and maybe I'll be able to say goodbye when the time comes."

Alin winced. "I… may not have been honest about that."

"What do you mean? You don't have less time, do you?"

It was with a pained expression that Alin nodded. "I shouldn't be alive now. Truth is, I'd kinda just accepted everything and there didn't seem much point in hanging about. Death sounded a lot more fun than living in pain."

"Oh, oh love," João held him close, kissing his cheek tenderly.

"Before you came over, I talked to my doctor about treatment. It's bought me til December, if I'm lucky. At least I'll get to see Halloween. Never liked Christmas much."

"How come?" João was shaking. He didn't want to lose Alin. He'd give his own life for this to not be true.

"Dad always puts out these rats dressed as elves," he was laughing through his tears and João joined him. They settled into silence for a long moment. "Sorry for lying to you. I'm not a smart man."

João shrugged. He wasn't happy at all, but he could be heartbroken in his own time, maybe write a poem or ten. He just hugged Alin tight, rubbing his back. "It's okay. I get it. You were scared. It just means every moment with you is that bit more precious."

* * *

João was going to say up the whole night. He wasn't going to leave until Alin had, and from what the doctors had told him, he wouldn't live to see dawn.

Alin's little room was dirty and depressing. The only furniture was a hospital bed and a scattering of little plastic chairs with uneven legs. A plastic bag of food wrappers and empty coffee cups hung off the back of the chair, and João wrapped his jacket tighter around him to keep out the cold. Outside the window, the wind howled, sending snow flying into the side of the building like it was trying to break in.

Iacob had gone to get coffee for everyone, and Andrei was sat sullenly in the corner, head drooping. Tsvetan was pacing back and forth, the only movement inside the room.

Alin's heart monitor beeped, a little too slowly for João's liking, and tubes and wires snaked in and out of his body. His elbows were bruised from where a nurse had tried to insert a cannula, but the veins had proved tricky to find, a final discomfort to add to his miserable final day. He was pale and still, not a drop of colour to his emaciated face, skin as transparent as the tube in his nose. Iacob had draped his fur coat over him to act as an extra blanket, to keep the shivering at bay. The doctors had attacked the cancer with everything they'd had for years now, but it was hopeless.

Alin was going to die.

Even when he'd been awake, Alin was too weak to talk, too in-pain, too near death. There were more drugs in his body now than there had been when he was at uni, but João could still see the pained crease between his brows.

João clutched his hand, shaking and gazing at his beautiful face, grey and sunken and broken, but still Alin. His Alin. He would always be his Alin; death couldn't destroy his love.

The night dragged on. Alin didn't wake up.

* * *

João awoke with a jolt. Morning light smacked him in the face as he blearily blinked and wiped drool from his mouth. The snow seemed to have stopped falling, and the world outside was painfully bright. It took a few seconds to remember where he was, but when he saw Alin, his heart sank.

He'd fallen asleep, and now Alin was dead.

"Oh God, oh God I'm so sorry," he jumped up and stroked Alin's hair, "love, I'm… I'm so sorry." He kissed his forehead, leaving patches of wet. He felt his face distort and contract as his heart was ripped from him. "I love you."

Andrei jumped awake too, shaking his father's and Tsvetan's shoulders and glancing at Alin with a whine.

Okay, João wasn't the only one to fall asleep, then, but if anything, that was worse. He collapsed into his chair, shoulders shaking. He couldn't believe himself; one night. All he had to do was not fall asleep for one night, the one night Alin needed him most of all. What if he'd woken up in the night? Opened his eyes one last time, only to find his family fast asleep.

He was never going to forgive himself for this.

"Zwo-"

João glanced up. A pair of copper-coloured eyes stared back, the only thing standing out against grey sheets and skin.

"Alin?" he whispered huskily.

"João?" He was smiling weakly, breaking into a lopsided grin when João squeezed his hand.

"Guess we've got you for another day or so," said Andrei, smiling through his tears. He leaned in and kissed his brother's forehead.

"We'll be here for you til the end," João promised, "even if we don't get to sleep in a week."

* * *

That seemed to be a lie, since Alin managed to hold on to life for the whole week, against all odds. By the third day, he was even managing to sit up and look about the room. João, Tsvetan and the Radacanus stayed with him as often as they could, just in case his luck ran out.

But it didn't.

Alin's body was refusing to go quietly.

João sat with him, stroking his head and reading poetry from a worn, old book, two weeks after he was supposed to die. He'd made it to Christmas, and seemed determined to see the new year too. João believed in him, and was happy for every extra day they were given together.

Doctor Vynnychenko came in to check everything, and give him the results of some tests they ran. João wasn't paying attention too closely, until he heard Alin swear in disbelief.

"You can't be serious."

João looked up to find Dr Vynnychenko smiling.

"You could call it a Christmas miracle, if you like, but the treatment seems to have done more than slowed the process. The cancer is dying; I don't want to make any promises, but it could end up going completely, with time. I don't know if it'll come back down the line, there's always a risk, but for now, there's hope."

João couldn't believe what he was hearing. Alin might be okay? He wasn't going to lose him?

Alin promptly burst into tears.

"Alinho!" João held him close, "I thought this would be good news!"

"It is!" he sobbed, wiping his eyes on his husband's shirt. "I just- I just- I never thought- I've been waiting all this time for it to end and-"

João rubbed his back, sharing a smile with Dr Vynnychenko; he couldn't wait to tell the others when they arrived. "I guess," he mumble into Alin's shoulders, "til death do us part will have to wait."


	6. The Siren Softly Sings - AmeLiet

_G.A. Densen - Denmark_

 _Tomas - Lithuania_

 _Jānis - Latvia_

 _..._

 _This is another fic inspired by a Pogues song, this particular one based on "Wake of the Medusa" and is the first of three Baltic fics that tie in together. They'll be written... eventually. One's already started and the other's in planning stage. In the meantime, I'll probably work on other fics from my Pogues series._

 _This fic was inspired by a song inspired by a painting based off a real sinking. The sinking in this fic is fictional, though._

 _This one is... well, I can't go spoiling anything, but it's spoopy, enjoy!_

* * *

 _The guests are stood in silence, they stare and drink their wine,_

 _On the wall the canvas hangs, frozen there in time,_

 _They marvel at the beauty, the horror and despair,_

 _At the wake of the Medusa, no one shed a tear,_

 _Sit my friends and listen, put your glasses down,_

 _Sit my friends and listen to the voices of the drowned._

* * *

Alfred didn't know a lot about art, but he could honestly say that was a big painting.

He could go into further detail, say that the painting itself had further detail, that there were a lot of men crammed on that raft, and they all looked rather fragile compared to the massive storm brewing in the background, but as it were, he just took another sip of coffee and tried to look deep in thought, and not completely, utterly bored.

He glanced around as people slowly filtered in and out, none of whom were his brother. He had no idea where Matthew had wandered off to, but he wasn't happy about being left in a creepy old gallery with a bunch of old people who looked like they'd keel over and die. They filtered in and out, but he was left alone for the most part. There was something eerie about the painting itself; maybe the twisted, pained expressions of everyone in it? How realistic they were? How they all seemed to be calling to him. As he waited for his brother to come collect him, Alfred, shuffled off to the side to let others see the painting, deciding to read the little plaque next to it.

 _Wreck of the Medusa - G.A. Densen_

 _Painted in 1800, this romantic piece depicts the sinking of the Medusa, a Danish merchant vessel run aground in the north Atlantic. After the officers and passengers were shepherded onto lifeboats, the main body of the crew was left to fend for themselves. Though some managed to cling to a makeshift raft, only one man was ever found alive._

 _Densen effectively and realistically conveys extreme emotion in his work, capturing the anguish of those doomed, and, for an unknown reason, painting himself into the picture (centre-right)._

Alfred glanced over at the man in question, staring out at him with pleading eyes. He shuddered.

 _This was Densen's final painting, finished shortly before his disappearance. No one knows what happened to him, and his body was never found._

Well, that was spooky.

"Haunting, is it not?"

Alfred jumped at the voice, and wheeled round to find the room empty, save for one assistant, standing in the corner.

"Err, yeah." He gave a friendly smile, despite the fact that he was shaking and had gotten an actual adrenaline rush from being crept up on. "You know about it? The - err - the painting?"

The assistant nodded. "Of course. I work here." He took a couple of steps closer, looking down at his hands and giving a melancholy sigh. He seemed nervous, like he didn't often get the opportunity to talk to people, and that lack of practice made him scared to try. Still, his confidence was growing. Nothing was going to stop him talking about this giant-ass painting. "I have studied the Wreck of the Medusa for years now," he appeared to be trying his best not to look too excited, but the way his voice cracked and his eyes lit up told another story, "I could tell you everything there is to know about it."

Alfred had to admire the man's passion. The only thing he'd been as dedicated to learn was the pokerap. He wasn't sure he wanted to learn about the painting, though; everything about it gave him the heebies, and then the jeebies. But he did love seeing people talk about that they were passionate about. And the guy was cute, too. He was dressed like a librarian in a baggy brown jumper and worn tie. His hair also had a grey tinge to it, as did his skin, but he was handsome. He just needed to get out more. Catch the sun. Maybe Alfred could take him out.

"You know what? I'd love to hear it."

The man smiled; it made his face less grey.

"Well, for starters, you read it was a Romanticism piece, right?"

"Yeah… what the hell is Romanticism? Doesn't look very romantic. Not really into drowning dudes. But I am very much into dudes," he added, hoping the guy would get the point. He didn't know how to say it clearer.

The guy smiled.

"I hear that a lot. Um, the not knowing about Romantic art. Oh, I did not catch your name!"

"Alfred F. Jones. I mean, I legally changed my middle name to Fortnite last year. And before that, the F stood for Franklin, though my brother says it was to pay respects when I was born. But anyway, what about you?"

The guy blinked, probably understanding about 10% of Alfred's ramble. "I am Tomas Septys. Lovely to meet you."

"You too, man. So, Romanticism?"

Tomas sat down on the bench in the middle of the room. Alfred joined him, leaving space between them.

"Yes, it is an art movement." He paused, excited to continue, but scared to bore him with a ramble.

"What kind?" Alfred prompted. He knew nothing about art movements. Tomas made him want to learn more.

"It places emphasis on emotion," said Tomas, playing with his hands, "particularly, the emotion of the artist. The idea behind that is using your imagination for your work, not really worrying about the rules. And being original."

Alfred nodded slowly.

"Of course, Densen was using his imagination for this, having not been present when the ship sank." He stood up, walking over to the painting. "His… his love was on the Medusa. There." He pointed at the man next to Densen, clinging to his shirt. Alfred thought it looked pretty freaking gay, but had the sneaking suspicion many people had insisted it was platonic throughout the years. "Not many people know that, though historians have debated."

"So you think they were in love?"

"I know they were."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You know?"

"Densen's private diaries were recovered recently. Someone had hidden them." Tomas didn't take his eyes off the painting. "Eduard Mets never came home. Densen waited months for the news. He hoped, prayed someone had picked him up. Maybe he'd washed ashore, or gotten lost."

"That… I couldn't even imagine going through that." Alfred studied the painting. Densen was wailing, like his soul was silently being torn in half. He could almost hear the screams.

"I think he had to accept it, after a while. That Eduard was not coming back. I have a feeling that, after finishing this painting, he… he walked into the ocean." He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "I mean, that is the legend, but there is always truth at the heart of a legend."

Alfred nodded, then he froze. "Wait, is this a ghost story?"

Tomas smiled. "Does that scare you?"

"Fucking yeah?"

"You can leave if you want. Walk out of the door."

Alfred thought about it. The room was darker than usual. Everyone was gone. No one had come in in a while now. He shivered.

"No, I'll stay."

"Good answer, but I am all out of time. My lunch break is over now. Can you come back tomorrow?"

Alfred looked at him. He was supposed to go look at some old buildings with Matthew. Maybe a museum or something. What the fuck was an "Old Town"?

He could blow it off.

"Yeah, sure. Same time tomorrow." He gave a smile, and left the room.

* * *

 _In the moonlight's ghostly glow, I waken in a dream,_

 _Once more upon that raft I stand, upon a raging sea,_

 _In my ears the moans and screams of the dying ring,_

 _Somewhere in the darkness, the siren softly sings,_

 _Out there in the waves she stands and smiling there she calls,_

 _As the lightning cracks the sky, the wind begins to howl._

* * *

True to his promise, Alfred was back in front of the painting, and Tomas was waiting for him on the other side of the room.

"Hey, how you been?"

Tomas smiled at him. "Looking forward to seeing you. I did not know if you would be true to your word, I must confess."

"Hey, man, I said I'd be here. You're cute and I only got a few days left to see you." He blushed at that. How would Tomas take it? People assumed he was good at flirting, because he looked like a Chad, but Alfred had no idea what he was doing. He often didn't.

Tomas looked at his shoes, smiling to himself. "We must make the most of our waning time."

Alfred glanced at the painting, then back to Tomas. "I guess you wanna talk about it some more?"

Tomas nodded. "You will not, truly, understand the painting, until we talk about the individualism."

"The what?"

"You need to know the story of the men here. The individual men."

"You know the names of all the men in the painting?" That was dedication.

"Some. We could not find out about every man. But Eduard and his two friends, Toris Laurinaitis and Jānis Garais," he pointed them out, "we know about them."

"Toris has your hair," Alfred noted.

"I get that a lot."

"Tell me about him."

"He was a thoughtful man, a Lithuanian sailor who travelled the world, and ended up in Copenhagen at the wrong time. Got work on the Medusa with his friends, trading on the Gold Coast and hoping to come back with… gold, funny enough."

Alfred nodded.

"No voyage was easy back in those days, but the risk brought reward, and I imagine the three were looking forward to getting a decent pay. Or… maybe not. Maybe promotion, something more stable. I do not know."

"But the ship sank?"

Tomas nodded. "A few weeks in, a storm hit the North Atlantic and the ship ran aground."

"The one in the painting?"

"Yes, the one in the painting." Tomas looked at the painting. It dominated the room, seemingly growing as Alfred stared. He swore it was moving: clouds fuzzing around the edges, sea rolling ever so slowly. But every time he tried to remember where a wave had been before, he couldn't. The painting had always been like that.

"The few passengers the ship had were loaded onto boats. And the senior crew. The rich, important people on the ship. There were few lifeboats. Little row boats that would barely survive the storm, but it was better than a doomed ship. The crew, the disposable members… no one particularly cared what happened to them."

"That's… wow." He couldn't bring himself to be surprised, but it still made his stomach sink. "Were they… did they…"

"The three friends, well, they had always stuck together, and they would, no matter what." Tomas rubbed his shoulder. "What happened next… it shook Europe to its core."

"What happened?"

"That, my friend, is a story for tomorrow."

"Are you for real?" Alfred groaned, "did you just IRL clickbait a Goddamn painting?"

"I have no idea what you just said, but please ?" asked Tomas, "for me?" He smiled sheepishly; Alfred's protest caught in his throat. "I have to get back to work, but…" He looked at the painting, "their story needs to be told." His voice cracked.

"I'll come back. I promise." Alfred reached over and squeezed his hand.

"You are so warm," Tomas commented. "You know, you can meet me after the museum closes. Stay behind… there is a cupboard you can hide in. People sneak in there all the time." He blushed at that. Deeply.

"Oh I'll be there." Alfred was blushing too. "You'll find me in there. In the cupboard. In the dark."

* * *

 _The architects of our doom, around their tables sit,_

 _And in their thrones of power, condemn those they've cast adrift,_

 _Echoes down the city street, their harpies laughter rings,_

 _Waiting for the curtain call, oblivious in the wings._

* * *

The gallery was silent. Even the security guards had forgotten to come to work, had forgotten to set alarms. They usually did when something was about to happen.

Despite the shattering silence, Tomas made no sound as he walked past his painting. The sun was setting through the dusty windows, gold sinking, to be replaced by grey. He wondered if Alfred had been true to his word; he'd not seen him about the gallery.

He walked on, slowly and deliberately towards their meeting place.

Tomas actually giggled as Alfred dragged him into the cupboard, kissing all over his neck. "Yo, how many spiders do you think are in here?" he laughed, hands on Tomas's arms.

"Just ignore them." He smiled at him, even if Alfred couldn't see it. "It will be okay. Just focus on me. Nothing but me."

"I can do that." Alfred kissed where the thought Tomas's nose would be. He landed on a cheek.

Tomas returned the kiss, tasting the sugar on his lips. "Just for tonight, let me be your world."

* * *

 _The casket is empty, abandon ye all hope,_

 _They ran off with the money, and left us with the rope._

* * *

Tomas breathed against Alfred's chest, clinging to the warmth and rush of blood and Alfred's ragged breathing. It had been lonely, wandering about the gallery; he missed the touch of another person.

"I'm really gonna miss you," Alfred whispered in his ear, shirt crumpled on the floor, trousers bunched at his knees. Tomas nodded. He let Alfred play with his hair, feeling the man tuck it behind his ears and kiss his forehead. He almost wept at the tenderness.

"Do you have to go?" he whispered back.

"Yeah. My plane's tomorrow." He pulled away to plaster his clothes back on him. Tomas sighed and pulled up his trousers; he hadn't done anything like that in a while.

In a rare moment of spontaneity, Tomas stepped forward and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist, squeezing him. He couldn't let him go.

Alfred stopped buttoning his shirt to hug him back. "I know, babe. Look, how about we go in the gallery, you tell me about the painting, and we come back here and hide away til the morning?"

Tomas smiled. "I'd like that. Come on," he straightened his jumper, "time to finish my story."

He took Alfred's hand and guided him through the darkness, through long corridors with ceilings lost in the gloom, to the room he knew so well. In the feeble moonlight, the painting looked alive. Alfred shivered.

For a long moment, Tomas said nothing. He stared up at the painting, willing himself to go on.

"So, you gonna tell me what happened?" Alfred looked at him, "to these three friends?"

Tomas nodded.

"You gonna tell me why you made me stay behind? This place is creeping me out, man."

Tomas took his hand. "Are you scared?"

"What? Nah! Of course not! I- yeah, this is pretty scary. I'm not scared, just… uneasy."

"I see. Fascinating."

"Tomas, please-"

"So impatient. The three floated on their raft for a week, hoping and praying that someone would find them. They survived on rainwater, taunted by the ocean surrounding them. So refreshing to hear, but would kill them if they drank." Tomas gave him a sorrowful smile. "No ships came. There was nothing to eat. Not for the first week, at least."

"Oh, did they get some fish? A seagull?" suggested Alfred. Tomas almost laughed at his optimism.

"Jānis was smaller than the other two. Weaker. He was the first to succumb to his hunger, and on the seventh day, his friends woke up to find his corpse."

Alfred winced, finding Jānis among the other faces in the painting. He looked so young, barely a man, with a round face and golden curls.

"That must've been horrible," he agreed.

"Then, his friends succumbed to their hunger, in a different way." Tomas shrugged. "Jānis's emaciated body hardly counted as fresh meat, but it was a source of food."

Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You mean they ate their friend ?"

"They did not mean to!"

"How do you not mean to eat someone?"

"There was no other way!"

"Woah, why you getting so emotional about it? I'm not saying I blame them, just that it's a bit gross."

"Please," Tomas looked at him, face lined with fear, "we were starving! There was nothing that could be done for Jānis, but maybe, Eduard and I-"

Alfred looked at him. "Woah, woah, wait, do you think you're the guy in the painting?"

Tomas grimaced, glancing at the exit. "Can you keep a secret?" Alfred nodded. "I am the guy in the painting. I am Toris."

"Oh come on, man, you need to get outta the gallery more."

"I cannot leave this place," said Tomas, quietly.

"Whatever!" Alfred turned to walk out. He was done with this, with Tomas and his secrets and hiding things, and now he was trying to tell him-

The doors slammed in his face.

Tomas stood behind him, hands out, his mouth strained.

"You may leave," he whispered, "once I have finished my story."

Alfred shrank away. He rattled the doorknob, but it was stuck fast. "Let me go!"

"Alfred," Tomas held his hands up, "I promise, I will set you free the moment I have finished my story."

Alfred growled and kicked the door, quickly giving up. "Fine! Tell me what happened to you, Ghost Boy!"

"A ghost? Huh…" Tomas scratched at his shoulder, "a restless spirit… yes, I suppose I am."

Alfred, though nothing terrified him more than the supernatural, took a step forward. Then another, and another. He thought about slamming him against the wall, but didn't want to see what this restless spirit could do.

And, on a slightly related note, what exactly had he just nut in? Was his jizz actually on the cupboard wall? He could ask about that later, maybe.

"What. Happened," he growled, speaking slowly, "Tomas, Toris, whoever you are, tell me what happened."

"We were found, a few weeks later," Tomas took a step back, climbing over the rope barrier and pressing himself against the painting. His own face silently wailed next to him. "Well, I was. As for Eduard…"

"Yes?"

"Bones. Picked clean. And blood caked on my chin. It was obvious to see what happened." Tomas stared at his friend in the painting.

"They said I was a monster," he whimpered, "I was hanged for my crimes, tortured for no other reason than disgust. The people who left me on that raft got away with it, but I was killed for trying to survive." He looked at Alfred. "I am no monster."

"I mean, dude, I'd count ghosts as monsters," Alfred shrugged, "and eating people is messed up…"

"You have my word, I slaughtered no one. All I did was outlive them. Do you trust me?"

"What the hell kinda question is that? I mean, you're a cannibal who's had my dick in your mouth, so you can't be all bad, but… man, this is too freaky. I gotta go. Think about stuff."

He turned to leave. Tomas didn't move.

"Hey, come on, open the doors!"

Tomas gave a whimper. "Please… please stay. I cannot be alone."

Alfred paused. This was stupid; either Tomas - Toris - was playing some messed-up joke on him, or he was talking to an actual, real ghost. Either way, every instinct told him not to stick around.

"Fine," he sighed, "I'll stay." Why was he so stupid?

"You will not leave?"

"I- I won't."

Toris stepped forward and took his arm. In the shadows, he seemed to shift, shrugging off his stuffy librarian's outfit. His shirt shimmered in the faint gasps of moonlight, pure white and seemingly floating. His face hollowed, eyes wild, a trapped animal. When Alfred looked at his hand, it was bones held together with skin. Though Toris looked like a zombie, the sight was too pitiful to send him running.

"You will stay with me?"

Alfred gulped. He nodded.

"You, my love, are a fool."

* * *

Matthew had been looking for his brother, the next morning when he didn't return home. He knew Alfred had been obsessed with the gallery, taking an interest in another country's culture for the first time ever. He'd forgone the beach, the club, even the theme park to come back here. It would've been a nice surprise, had it not taken over his entire life.

Alfred couldn't be convinced, and now he was gone. Matthew walked as fast as he could, through the many little rooms with humanity's history in paintings, past tourists and old people, past security guards who paid him no mind, past-

Matthew stopped. There was no need to rush.

He looked at the nearest painting, one of a girl and her dog. She was sat on her swing, in the back garden of a cottage. Her dog seemed to be chasing her as she swung, a playful movement to his tail. He liked the lighting in it, but didn't know much about paintings to comment further.

He moved on.

The place was nice, and he'd happily spend a day here, but he needed to catch his flight later that afternoon. The sun warmed his face as he passed windows twice his height, but the next room he entered - off to the side - was cool and dark.

There was one painting.

It took up most of the wall, a scene of misery stretched out before him. The twisted pain in the faces of the sailors clinging to a raft, spilling into the sea and splashing wildly, reaching out to grab at their comrades.

In the background, a storm raged, destroying what was left of the ship, thrown about like the broken carcass of an insect.

In the foreground, among other terrified sailors, was a man who jolted something in Matthew's mind. There was something familiar about him. They looked super similar, and Matthew smiled. It was nice to find your doppelganger in a painting.

There was a sense of loss too, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

A voice spoke up behind him, so sudden it made him jump.

"Haunting, is it not?"


End file.
